LONCr 


Qrant  Carpenter"* 


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^V^oK 


LONG  SWEETENING 


LONG  SWEETENING 

A  Romance  of  the  Red  Woods 


BY 

GRANT  CARPENTER 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  &  COMPANY 

1921 


Copyright,      1921,      by 
Robert    M.    McBride    &    Co. 


Qxoas  f\  i'ktt- 


Printed       in        the 
United     States     of     America 


Published,        1921 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  the  late  afternoon  of  a  November  day  that 
had  been  steadfastly  gray  and  still — such  a  day  in  the 
mountains  of  Northern  California  as  marks  the  end 
of  a  long  Indian  summer  and  presages  the  near  ap- 
proach of  a  longer  winter.  The  high  unwavering 
clouds,  that  had  held  the  sun  in  unbroken  obscurity 
from  its  lazy  and  indulgent  rising  to  its  sullen  and  re- 
luctant setting,  were  darkening  and  descending  swiftly. 
When  they  touched  the  tops  of  the  sparsely-wooded 
ridges,  the  tree-squirrels,  warned  that  their  season  of 
provident  activity  was  drawing  to  a  close,  dropped  their 
burdens  to  bark  a  half-hearted  protest,  and  scampered 
away  to  their  nests.  The  querulous  jays  lowered 
their  crests,  cocked  their  heads  on  one  side  for  an 
instant,  then  fled  shrieking  to  the  shelter  of  the  can- 
yon below. 

There,  where  a  primeval  forest  of  giant  redwoods 
stood  rooted  in  the  moss  and  mold  of  centuries,  the 
day-long  twilight  was  deepening  into  dusk,  and  the 
solemn  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  play  of  a 
hidden  brook,  murmuring  and  gurgling  under  cano- 
pies of  yew,  laurel  and  fern.  Faithfully  following  its 
meanderings  was  an  old  wood  road,  so  choked  with 
laurel,  and  hazel,  and  huckleberry  brush  that  only  a 
slender  trail  remained  to  mark  its  course. 

It  would  have  required  a  second  glance  to  determine 
whether   the   object   moving   swiftly   but    noiselessly 

463421 


2  LONG  SWEETENING 

along  the  gloomy  path  was  an  animal  or  a  human 
being;  another  to  discover  whether  man  or  child. 
Where  the  hazel  and  huckleberry  thickened  a  coon- 
skin  cap  with  tail  dangling  behind  just  topped  them; 
where  they  thinned  a  suit  of  untanned  deerskin  showed. 
The  coat,  so  large  that  the  sleeves  had  to  be  rolled 
back  to  allow  his  hands  their  freedom,  hung  nearly 
to  his  knees;  and  the  trousers,  so  short  that  they  left 
half  of  his  bare  shanks  exposed,  were  in  tatters.  His 
feet,  large,  leathery  and  grimy,  were  bare.  Upon  his 
shoulder  rested  an  old-fashioned  fowling-piece,  and 
by  his  side  hung  a  shot  pouch  and  powder  horn. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  listened  and  glanced  about 
him  with  the  uneasiness  of  a  wild  animal  that  senses 
danger  before  there  is  a  warning  of  it.  As  the  first 
gust  of  the  gathering  storm  set  the  forest  shivering 
and  sent  a  shower  of  dry  leaves  rustling  down  from 
the  upper  branches,  he  looked  up  at  the  swaying  tree 
tops  and  at  the  lowering  sky.  The  lifted  face  was  so 
browned  from  exposure  that  one  might  readily  have 
mistaken  him  for  an  Indian,  but  for  the  jet  black 
curls  that  tumbled  from  his  cap  to  his  shoulders.  Dark, 
deep-set  eyes,  wonderfully  bright  and  alert,  a  clean- 
cut,  aquiline  nose  that  ended  in  thin,  sensitive  nostrils 
and  a  prominent  chin,  deeply  cleft,  were  the  dominant 
features  of  a  face  that  would  have  arrested  attention 
anywhere — the  face  of  a  thirteen-year-old  boy.  It 
was  too  hawkish  to  be  handsome,  but,  nevertheless, 
gave  promise  of  rugged,  manly  beauty.  Untouched  by 
sophistication  it  showed  only  animal  instincts,  inher- 


LONG  SWEETENING  3 

ited  and  developed — distrust,  cunning  and  patience, 
fearlessness  without  recklessness,  relentlessness  with- 
out cruelty — a  matrix  ready  for  the  moulding  of  un- 
usual character. 

"Hit's  shore  goin'  to  rain  mighty  soon,"  he  mut- 
tered, and  shifting  his  gun  to  the  other  shoulder  hur- 
ried on  at  a  quickened  pace. 

Again  he  halted  in  the  middle  of  a  stride  and  stood 
with  one  foot  lifted,  like  a  setter  at  point.  From  a 
little  gulch  at  his  left  came  first  a  crackling  of  dried 
twigs  and  then  a  crashing  of  brush.  His  trained  ears 
told  him  that  no  deer  or  panther  would  move  so 
clumsily,  and  he  knew  that  no  cattle  could  have  strayed 
in  there  from  the  distant  ranges.  Quickly,  and  with- 
out snapping  a  twig  or  stirring  a  leaf,  he  slipped 
behind  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  dropped  a  handful 
of  buckshot  into  each  barrel  of  his  gun,  rammed  a 
wad  of  oak  moss  down  upon  each  load,  raised  the 
hammers  so  carefully  that  they  gave  no  warning  click, 
shoved  the  barrel  over  the  top  of  the  log  and  waited. 
The  crashing  grew  louder  and  drew  nearer. 

"  'Tain't  a  hoss,  er  I  c'd  hear  his  hooves,"  he  de- 
cided. "An'  no  man'd  be  fool  enough  to  come  down 
thoo  that  bresh,  when  he  c'd  foller  the  ridge  trail." 

Whatever  it  might  be,  it  was  coming  directly  toward 
him.  Soon  he  saw  the  brush  near  the  edge  of  the 
thicket  shaken  violently,  and  then  came  the  sound  of 
a  heavy  fall  followed  by  a  grunt. 

"Sounds  like  a  b'ar,"  he  reflected.     "I'll  have  to 


4  LONG  SWEETENING 

give  'im  both  bar'ls  to  oncet,  an'  oV  Betsy'll  kick  the 
stuffm'  outen  me." 

He  wadded  up  his  coat  at  the  shoulder,  pressed  the 
stock  of  the  gun  against  the  improvised  pad  and  took 
careful  aim  at  thei  point,  not  twenty  yards  distant, 
where  he  calculated  the  animal  would  emerge.  Sud- 
denly the  brush  parted,  and  a  short,  thick-set  man,  hat- 
less  and  slightly  bald,  staggered  out  into  the  open.  His 
face  and  hands  were  scratched  and  bleeding,  his  khaki 
hunting-suit  was  torn  to  shreds,  and  one  of  his  leather 
puttees  was  gone,  but  he  still  clung  desperately  to  his 
rifle.  He  gathered  himself  together  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  up  and  down  the  canyon  in  hopeless 
bewilderment. 

The  lad  lay  behind  the  log  watching  him  with  un- 
blinking eyes  as  he  flung  down  his  rifle,  tottered  to  the 
brook  and  drank  long  and  deeply,  pausing  to  wash  the 
blood  from  his  face  and  hands,  then  drinking  again; 
watched  him  as  he  climbed  back  to  the  trail  and  looked 
about  him,  evidently  trying  to  decide  which  way  he 
should  turn.  He  glanced  at  the  threatening  sky  and 
peered  through  the  darkening  forest.  He  halloed  and 
listened,  but  not  even  an  echo  answered.  He  picked  up 
his  rifle  and  without  raising  it  to  his  shoulder  fired 
three  quick  shots,  then  shouted  again,  but  the  wilder- 
ness swallowed  the  sound  as  quickly  as  it  had  engulfed 
the  hunter. 

The  boy  lowered  the  hammers  of  his  gun,  stepped 
out  from  his  ambush  and  approached  the  stranger 
noiselessly. 


LONG  SWEETENING  5 

"What  are  you  hollerin,  about?"  he  asked. 

At  the  unexpected  sound  of  a  human  vpice  almost 
at  his  elbow,  the  man  started  and  wheeled. 

"Why— hello!"  he  gasped. 

"Hello !"  responded  the  boy.  "What  you  hollerm' 
for?" 

"Why,  I'm  lost." 

"Lost!  I  thought  you  was  a  b'ar  a-huntin'  hazel 
nuts,  an'  I  come  mighty  nigh  pluggin'  you." 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  I  am?"  growled  the 
stranger. 

"Ye-e-ah."  The  lad  eyed  him  deliberately  from  head 
to  heel  after  the  manner  of  the  mountainside. 

"Well — where  am  I?"  demanded  the  hunter  trucu- 
lently. 

"Right  hyur." 

The  man  scowled  and  flushed.  "Don't  stand  there 
gaping  at  me  like  an  idiot,  but  tell  me  how  I  can  get 
to  Warm  Springs." 

The  lad  stiffened  and  his  eyes  narrowed.  He  made 
no  response,  but  gripped  his  gun  in  both  hands,  held 
it  lightly  across  his  body  and  began  backing  slowly 
toward  the  trunk  of  a  nearby  tree,  feeling  his  way  with 
his  bare  toes  and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stranger's 
face. 

"Say !  You're  not  going  to  leave  me  in  this  wilder- 
ness, are  you?"  pleaded  the  hunter  in  sudden  alarm. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  keer  much  fur  yer  comp'ny." 

"I'll  pay  you  for  your  trouble,  if  you'll  direct  me  to 
Warm  Springs.     I'll  give  you  ten  dollars." 


6  ,  LONG  SWEETENING 

The  lad  stopped  when  his  elbow  touched  the  tree 
and  eyed  him  with  contempt.  "Say !  Where  you  fum- 
anyway  ?" 

"I'm  from  San  Francisco." 

"Do  folks  there  have  to  be  paid  fur  info'mation?" 

"Yes — generally." 

"Well,  they  don't  up  hyur.  If  a  body's  civil  about 
askin',  he  gits  it  fur  nuthin.'  If  he  ain't,  he  kain't  git 
it  at  all." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  boy,"  the  hunter  hastened 
to  apologize.  "I'm  a  stranger  here,  and  I  don't  know 
the  people  or  the  country." 

"No;  I  reckon  you  don't." 

"Won't  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  how  to  get 
back  to  my  camp?" 

"To  Warm  Springs?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  jes  f oiler  this  trail  an*  keep  to  the  left  at  all 
the  forks  till  you  git  to  the  lake.  Then  keep  to  the 
right  till  you  git  past  it,  an'  at  the  fust  fork  take  the 
left  hand  trail  to  the  bottom  of  the  canyon,  an'  f oiler 
down  the  crick  to  the  secon'  crossin'.  Then  turn  tq. 
the  left  at  the  top  of  the  ridge,  an*  Warm  Springs  is 
jes  two  looks  straight  ahead." 

"How  far  is  it,  anyway?" 

"  'Bout  eight  mile." 

"Eight  miles!"  gasped  the  stranger  in  dismay.  "I 
can't  possibly  get  there  tonight.  Isn't  there  some  place 
near  here  where  I  can  stay?" 

"Well— I  dunno." 


LONG  SWEETENING  7 

The  lad  reflected.  An  intuitive  sense  of  hostility, 
more  than  the  man's  arrogance,  prompted  a  feeling  of 
aversion  that  almost  amounted  to  enmity,  but  that  was 
no  reason  for  denying  the  customary  hospitality  of  the 
hills. 

"I  guess,  mebbe,  I  kin  put  you  up  at  my  cabin  fur 
the  night,"  he  decided. 

"How  far  is  it  from  here?" 

"  'Bout  two  mile." 

"I  can't  go  that  far.  I'm  completely  done  up." 

"Then  I  guess  you'll  have  to  camp  hyur." 

The  stranger  looked  about  hopelessly.  The  prospect 
of  a  night  in  the  forest  with  no  food  or  shelter,  and  in 
the  storm  that  was  brewing,  terrified  him. 

"How  can  I  ?"  he  complained.  "I  have  no  blankets 
and  nothing  to  eat.  I  haven't  even  a  match." 

"Got  ca'tridges  an'  a  gun,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes;  but  what  good  are  they?  Isn't  there  some 
place  near  here — a  deserted  cabin  or  something — where 
I  can  find  shelter  ?    It's  going  to  rain." 

"Hit  shore-  is."  The  lad  pondered.  "Say !  You  kin 
walk  a  couple  o'  hunderd  yards,  kain't  you  ?" 

"Just  about." 

"All  right.  Come  on,"  and  he  started  briskly  up  the 
trail  with  the  swinging  gait  of  the  trained  moun- 
taineer, the  stranger  limping  after  him. 

"What  is  your  name,  my  boy?"  he  inquired. 

That  was  a  question  that  was  never  asked  in  the 
mountains.  A  man's  identity  was  his  own  affair,  and 
if  he  chose  to  reveal  it,  well  and  good. 


8  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Wade  Carson,"  responded  the  young  guide  prompt- 
ly. "What's  yourn?"  He  wanted  it  understood  that 
any  affront  would  be  repaid  in  kind. 

"John  Arnold/'  replied  the  stranger,  unconscious  of 
the  discourtesy. 

"Been  out  huntin'?" 

"Yes — hunting  and  fishing.  I  wounded  a  deer  this 
morning  and  followed  the  trail  till  I  got  lost." 

"Huh!  I  don't  see  how  anybody  kin  git  lost," 
chuckled  the  boy. 

"You  don't!  How  do  you  find  your  way  about  in 
•this  wilderness?" 

"Why,  when  I  want  to  go  anywheres,  I  jes  go;  and 
when  I  want  to  come  back,  I  jes  come.  Hyur's  a  good 
place  to  camp,"  he  said,  as  he  stopped  in  a  group 
of  giant  redwoods  and  set  down  his  gun.  "You  kin 
sleep  all  right  hyur."  He  pointed  to  a  hollow  in  the 
trunk  of  one  of  the  trees  large  enough  to  shelter  half 
a  dozen  men.  "If  you'll  cut  some  limbs  and  ferns  fur  a 
bed,  I'll  build  a  fire  clost  enough  to  keep  you  warm  an* 
fur  enough  away  so's  not  to  smoke  you  out.  Gimme 
yer  gun — an'  some  ca'tridges." 

"What  do  you  want  of  them?"  asked  Arnold,  with 
quick  suspicion. 

"To  build  a  fire  with.  I  ain't  got  much  powder  o' 
my  own." 

Arnold  handed  over  the  rifle  and  sat  down  with  his 
back  to  a  tree.  Young  Carson  inspected  the  gun  in 
great  perplexity. 


LONG  SWEETENING  9 

"How  do  you  git  the  ca'tridges  out  'thout  shootin'  ?" 
he  inquired  as  he  passed  it  back.  Arnold  threw  a  couple 
out  of  the  magazine  and  watched  the  boy  curiously  as 
he  scraped  the  earth  bare,  stamped  it  with  his  tough 
heels,  removed  the  lead  from  the  cartridges  with  his 
hunting  knife  and  poured  the  powder  from  the  shells, 
the  greater  part  in  a  small  heap  that  he  covered  with 
moss  and  twigs,  and  the  remainder  in  a  slender  train 
leading  to  it. 

"Shoot  right  hyur,"  he  instructed  Arnold,  pointing 
to  the  end  of  the  train. 

"Why  don't  you  do  it?" 

"I  don't  know  how  she  works,"  confessed  the  lad, 
with  a  glance  at  the  gun. 

Arnold  rose  wearily,  threw  a  cartridge  into  the  bar- 
rel and  fired  a  shot  at  the  point  indicated.  With  the 
flash  of  the  powder  the  moss  began  to  blaze. 

"That's  how  to  build  a  fire  when  you  ain't  got  no 
matches,"  observed  the  boy.  "You  pick  up  some  dry 
limbs  an'  keep'er  goin',  an'  I'll  cook  you  somethin'  to 
eat." 

He  drew  a  couple  of  mountain  quail  from  the  pocket 
of  his  coat,  and  while  Arnold  gathered  fuel  for  his 
fire  and  cut  boughs  for  the  bed,  dressed  and  washed 
the  birds  at  the  brook.  Then  he  cut  a  green  hazel 
branch,  raked  out  a  bed  of  glowing  coals,  spitted  the 
quail  and  proceeded  to  broil  them. 

"I  alius  pack  pepper  and  salt,"  he  explained,  as  he 
took  an  old  percussion  cap  box  from  his  pocket,  "but 


io  LONG  SWEETENING 

I  ain't  got  no  bread.  I'm  a  little  short  o'  flour  jes 
now." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Arnold.  "These  quail  will  be 
lifesavers."  He  lay  by  the  fire  watching  them  hungrily 
while  they  browned. 

"I  guess  they're  done  now."  The  boy  was  laying 
them  before  Arnold  on  the  frond  of  a  fern.  "While 
you're  eatin',  I'll  git  wood  enough  to  keep  your  fire 
a-goin'." 

He  quickly  gathered  a  great  pile  of  dried  limbs  and 
rolled  a  log  up  beside  the  fire. 

"There!  I  guess  that'll  answer,"  he  decided. 

Rain  began  to  patter  upon  the  dry  leaves  beyond  the 
sheltered  circle,  and  the  boy  shouldered  his  gun. 

"I've  got  to  be  a-movin'  now,"  he  said.  "If  you'll 
jes  foller  this  trail  in  the  mornin'  an'  keep  to  the  left 
till  you  come  to  the  lake,  I'll  git  some  break  fust  fur 
you." 

"Thanks,  my  boy.  You've  helped  me  out  of  a  pret- 
ty bad  hole,"  admitted  Arnold,  as  he  struggled  to  his 
feet. 

"Oh,  that's  nothin'." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  would  have  done  if  I  hadn't 
met  you.  Here — take  this."  He  offered  the  lad  a  gold 
coin. 

Young  Carson  glanced  at  it  in  surprise  and  at  Arn- 
old with  suspicion.  He  recalled  that  a  fugitive  bandit 
had  once  offered  his  father  a  whole  silver  dollar  for  a 
single  night's  shelter,  and  certainly  one  who  handled 
gold  coin  with  such  prodigality  couldn't  have  come  by 


LONG  SWEETENING  n 

it  honestly.  He  was  to  be  distrusted,  watched  and  avoid- 
ed. The  sense  of  hostility  that  he  had  felt  in  the  be- 
ginning returned  with  redoubled  force.  Instantly  he 
regretted  his  offer  of  further  hospitality  and  hoped  it 
would  not  be  accepted,  but  without  a  word  he  turned 
on  his  heel  and  disappeared.  Arnold  stood  staring  at 
a  wall  of  impenetrable  darkness  that  flung  the  fire- 
light back  upon  itself.  He  strained  his  ears  to  catch 
some  sound  from  the  inky  wilderness  beyond,  half  ex- 
pecting to  hear  a  cry  from  the  boy,  blotted  out  so  sud- 
denly and  completely,  but  he  heard  only  the  nearby 
plash  of  the  brook  and  the  distant  hoot  of  a  great 
horned  owl.  He  shuddered  and  drew  closer  to  the 
fire. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  barely  daybreak  when  Arnold  sat  up,  rubbed 
his  eyes  and  tried  to  locate  himself.  His  limbs  were 
stiff  and  sore  from  the  unusual  hardships  of  the  previ- 
ous day,  and  his  body  ached  from  the  unaccustomed 
hardness  of  his  bed.  As  he  stepped  out  of  the  hol- 
low tree  a  gray-squirrel,  which  had  been  sitting  on  a 
log  watching  his  smouldering  fire  with  cautious  curi- 
osity, scampered  up  a  nearby  madrona  and  barked  at 
him  petulantly. 

The  forest  was  dripping  from  the  rain  of  the  night, 
but  the  sky  was  clear,  except  for  an  occasional  high- 
scudding  cloud,  the  harbinger  of  a  heavy  and  protracted 
storm.  Arnold  stretched  himself,  limped  to  the  brook, 
removed  the  remnants  of  clothing  that  still  clung  to 
him  and  refreshed  himself  with  a  bath  in  the  icy  water. 
Then,  redressing  and  tying  a  bandanna  handkerchief 
over  his  head,  he  shouldered  his  rifle  and  started  up 
the  trail. 

It  wound  its  way  through  a  virgin  forest  of  red- 
woods, whose  fluted  columns  seemed  to  support  the 
azure  dome  above.  It  passed  beneath  lower  arches  of 
madrona  and  chestnut  oak  and  through  bowers  of 
pungent  laurel  and  fragrant  nutmeg.  It  crossed  a 
marshy  basin,  where  thimbleberry  and  blackberry  vines 
grew  thick  and  tangled,  like  myrtle  on  neglected  graves, 
and  the  skeletons  of  giant  trees  long  dead  stood  erect, 
grimi  and  reproachful.     It  rose  gently  to  a  higher 

(12) 


LONG  SWEETENING  13 

bench,  threaded  a  maze  of  hazel,  plunged  down  again 
and  crossed  the  brook  by  a  rude  bridge  of  unhewn 
logs. 

Here  Arnold  paused  to  watch  the  trout  leaping  in 
the  pool  below  and  the  ferns  fluttering  in  the  cascade 
above,  and  to  inhale  the  pungent  fragrance  of  the  damp 
forest.  Something  in  the  money-grubbing  soul  of  the 
man  swelled  and  quivered.  Blood,  grown  sluggish 
from  years  of  coddling,  leaped  to  life;  nerves,  slack 
and  unsteady  from  constant  strain,  tightened  and 
tingled.  The  hardships  through  which  he  had  just 
passed,  the  wounds,  the  bruises  and  the  mental  per- 
turbation were  forgotten.  With  a  lighter  step  he 
tramped  on,  past  a  pond  criss-crossed  with  the  trunks 
of  monster  trees  that  had  died  and  fallen,  and  past  the 
gushing  springs  that  burst  from  the  mountainside  to 
feed  it.  Here,  where  the  lazy  brook  had  its  source, 
the  trail  reluctantly  parted  company  with  it  to  climb  a 
steep  slope,  winding  through  a  forest  so  dense  that  not 
a  single  ray  of  a  summer  sun  could  ever  penetrate  it. 

At  last,  through  the  interlaced  boughs  overhead 
and  beyond,  Arnold  began  to  catch  occasional  glimpses 
of  the  sky  and  knew  that  he  was  approaching  an  open- 
ing, but  he  was  wholly  unprepared  for  the  view  that 
burst  upon  him  as  he  emerged  from  the  wood.  He 
stopped,  awed,  amazed,  at  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

In  some  prehistoric  period  two  mountains — twin 
giants — had  stood  guard  over  the  gateway  of  the  great 
canyon,  one  at  each  side.  At  their  feet  a  mountain 
stream  had  rushed  and  rioted,  till  in  anger  they  flung 


14  LONG  SWEETENING 

themselves  down  upon  it  and  held  it  in  subjection;  and 
now  their  scarred  and  forbidding  faces  looked  down 
upon  their  prisoner — a  lake  of  deepest  blue. 

Arnold  stood  at  the  summit  of  the  natural  dam  and 
looked  across  the  lake  where  a  mountain  rose  so  abrupt- 
ly that  its  bristling  pines  seemed  ready  to  slip  in- 
to the  water.  Around  its  base  the  lake  curved  to  the 
East  until  it  hid  itself  behind  a  jutting  point  of  rocks. 
At  his  right  a  grove  of  laurel  stretched  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  at  his  left  stood  a  rude  cabin,  over  which  a 
mass  of  honeysuckle  and  wild  roses  sprawled.  Upon 
its  side  were  stretched  fresh  deerskins  and  the  pelts  of 
foxes,  raccoons  and  squirrels,  and  on  the  bench  before 
it  sat  his  little  guide  of  the  night  before,  lazily  smok- 
ing a  corn-cob  pipe. 

"Hello!"  shouted  Arnold,  as  he  hurried  down  the 
slope. 

"Hello !"  responded  the  boy.  He  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe  and  rose  deliberately.  "Ready  for 
breakfas'?" 

"Yes;  I  think  I  am.  That  tramp  has  given  me  an 
appetite." 

"Well,  set  down,  an'  I'll  cook  it.    I've  had  mine." 

Arnold  leaned  his  gun  against  the  side  of  the  cabin 
and  dropped  on  the  bench.  Opposite  him,  only  a  few 
rods  away,  a  mountain — almost  a  sheer  precipice — 
rose  from  the  indigo  waters  at  its  base  to  the  golden 
oaks  upon  its  crest  a  thousand  feet  above.  Near  the 
summit,  just  touched  by  the  morning  sun,  Autumn 
leaves  flamed  red.    Below  were  patches  of  rich  brown 


LONG  SWEETENING  15 

and  soft  yellow  foliage,  and  still  lower,  where  the 
shadows  deepened,  showed  the  brilliant  green  of  ferns 
and  creepers  and  the  silvery  gleam  of  cascading 
springs. 

Arnold  had  seen  Springtime  in  the  Alps,  Summer 
among  the  fjords  of  Norway  and  Autumn  among  the 
lakes  of  the  high  Sierra,  but  nowhere  had  he  ever  seen 
a  spot  of  such  exquisite  beauty — so  perfectly  peaceful, 
so  completely  restful,  so  satisfying  to  the  soul.  It  was 
as  though  Nature,  dissatisfied  with  her  first  crude 
handiwork,  had  striven  with  all  her  power  to  soften 
and  to  chasten  the  roughness  and  wildness  of  it. 

"What  an  ideal  country  place  this  would  make," 
mused  Arnold,  and  he  began  sketching  it  in  his  imag- 
ination. 

Early  in  life — in  fact,  when  a  young  lady  refused  to 
marry  him  till  he  was  able  to  provide  for  her  amply — 
John  Arnold  had  formulated,  approved  and  adopted  the 
theory  that  money  would  meet  every  human  desire. 
He  had  devoted  himself  so  assiduously  to  its  accumula- 
tion that  he  had  had  neither  time  nor  inclination  for 
anything  beyond  its  reach,  and  so  successfully  that  he 
had  been  able  to  get  everything  he  wanted,  including 
the  young  lady.  The  desire  to  own  the  lake  reduced 
it  to  his  possession — acquisition  being  a  mere  matter 
of  detail — and  he  proceeded  at  once  to  plan  the  im- 
provement of  the  property.  He  would  have  a  roor.iy 
log  bungalow  with  beamed  ceilings,  big  fireplaces  and 
broad  verandas  there  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  a  red 
clover  lawn  stretching  to  the  pebble  beach,  graveled 


i6  LONG  SWEETENING 

paths  leading  to  the  boat-house  and  bath-house  under 
the  overhanging  laurels,  and  a  tangle  of  pond  lilies 
wherever  the  water  shallowed. 

"Breakfas'  ready,"  announced  young  Carson. 

"This  is  a  beautiful  place,"  remarked  Arnold,  as  he 
rose  and  turned  toward  the  door,  reluctantly  yielding 
to  the  call  of  hunger. 

"Think  so?" 

The  cabin  contained  but  one  long  room,  floored  with 
puncheons,  roofed  with  clapboards  and  lighted  dimly 
by  two  small  windows.  At  one  side  was  an  immense 
fireplace  of  unhewed  stone  and  yellow  clay,  and  above 
the  rough  redwood  mantel  were  matched  deer  antlers 
that  served  as  a  gun-rack.  The  fowling-piece  the  boy 
had  carried  the  night  before,  a  long-barrelled,  muzzle- 
loading  rifle  with  silver  mountings,  and  a  home-made, 
brass- fer ruled  rod  of  seasoned  yew,  rested  upon  them, 
while  from  them  dangled  shot  pouches  and  powder 
horns.  Built  against  the  opposite  wall  were  two  rude 
bunks,  upon  which  worn  furs  and  blankets  were  piled 
in  disorder.  A  rough  table  and  four  stools,  all  of 
split  timber  unplaned,  occupied  the  center  of  the  room. 
Appetizing  odors  rose  from  the  pots  and  pans  that 
stood  on  the  glowing  wood  coals  in  the  open  fireplace. 

"Where  are  your  father  and  mother?"  asked  Arnold. 

"Ain't  got  none,"  replied  the  boy. 

"No?    Are  they  dead?" 

"Yeah.    Draw  up,"  and  he  nodded  toward  a  stool. 

"When  did  they  die?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  17 

"Mammy  died  when  I  was  a  baby,  an'  pap  brung  me 
up.    He  died  'bout  a  month  ago." 

"And  you  live  here  alone?" 

"Yeah." 

"Who  owns  this  place?" 

"I  do.  Have  some  fish?"  and  he  placed  before  his 
guest  a  tin  plate  with  a  broiled  trout  on  it. 

"That  looks  all  right,"  declared  Arnold.  "Where  did 
you  catch  it?" 

"In  the  lake.    Hit's  full  o'  them." 

"Just  whip  your  breakfast  from  plunge  to  pan,  eh  ?" 
and  Arnold  glowed  at  the  thought  of  it.  He  won- 
dered what  basis  there  might  be  for  the  boy's  claim  of 
ownership.  In  all  probability  it  rested  solely  upon  his 
temporary  occupation.  If  this  were  Government  land, 
it  would  still  be  open  to  entry  and  purchase,  for  a  min- 
or could  not  even  set  up  "squatter's  rights." 

"Did  your  father  own  this  place?"  he  inquired. 

"Yeah — three  hundred  an'  twenty  acres.  He  proved 
up  on  it  an'  give  it  to  me  when  he  died.  Have  some1 
corn  pone  ?" 

The  lad  lifted  the  lid  of  the  Dutch  oven  on  the 
hearth,  took  out  half  a  loaf  and  placed  it  on  Arnold's 
plate. 

"Has  there  been  any  administration?"  asked  Arn- 
old. 

"Any  which?" 

"Administration — on  your  father's  estate." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  jes  made  a  coffin 
an'  buried  him  up  yon — "  he  jerked  his  thumb  over  his 


18  LONG  SWEETENING 

shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  knoll  back  of  the  cab- 
in— "where  he  tol'  me  to." 

He  filled  a  tin  cup  with  coffee,  set  it  upon  the  table 
and  picked  up  a  jug. 

"Have  some  sweet'nin'  ?"  'he  asked.  "I  ain't  got  no 
short — only  long,"  he  added  apologetically. 

"What's  long  sweet'nin'  ?"  inquired  Arnold. 

"M'lasses." 

"Oh!  Why  is  it  called  'long  sweet'nin' ?" 

"I  dunno — 'less  it's  because  hit's  so  long  a-comin'," 
chuckled  the  boy,  as  he  waited  for  the  cold  molasses  to 
flow  from  the  jug.  "Say  when!" 

"There!  I  guess  that  will  do.  This  trout  is  de- 
licious," declared  Arnold.  "Do  you  do  all  of  your  own 
cooking?" 

"Course.  There  ain't  nobody  else  to  do  it.  Have 
some  deer  liver  an'  bacon?" 

"You  bet  I  will.     Who  killed  the  deer?" 

"I  did." 

"By  George!  I  wish  I  could  get  one!"  exclaimed 
Arnold. 

"Ain't  you  killed  any  yet?"  asked  Wade  in  sur- 
prise. 

"No,"  admitted  Arnold,  "I've  seen  but  one  since  I 
came  up  here." 

"Huh!"  It  was  a  grunt  of  amusement  and  con- 
tempt. 

"Are  there  many  around  here?" 

"I  kin  git  one  any  mornin'  or  evenin'.  You  see,  this 


LONG  SWEETENING  19 

place  is  so  kind  o'  out  o'  the  way  that  there  ain't  much 
huntin'  hyur." 

"What  an  ideal  preserve!"  reflected  Arnold.  "Do 
you  keep  hunters  out?"  he  asked. 

"Course  not.  Hit's  a  mighty  mean  man  that  won't 
let  nobody  hunt  on  his  place." 

The  skins  of  half  a  dozen  gigantic  rattlesnakes 
stretched  on  the  walls  caught  Arnold's  attention. 

"Are  there  rattlesnakes  around  here?"  he  asked  in 
sudden  alarm. 

Wade  glanced  at  him  sharply.  "I  suspicion  there  is," 
he  was  about  to  reply,  but  caution  curbed  his  tongue. 
"There's  some  over  yon,"  he  jerked  his  thumb  in  the 
direction  of  the  open  ranges  to  the  East,  "but  they 
ain't  no  snakes  in  the  timber." 

While  his  guest  was  finishing  his  breakfast  Wade 
went  outside  and  examined  Arnold's  rifle  with  interest 
and  curiosity.  He  had  heard  of  the  new-fangled  breech- 
loader and  repeater,  but  had  never  before  seen  one, 
except  as  pictured  on  the  back  page  of  an  old  maga-» 
zine.  He  threw  it  to  his  shoulder,  sighted  it  at  differ- 
ent objects  and  tested  its  weight  and  balance. 

"She's  nice  and  light,"  he  mused,  "but  I  bet  she 
won't  shoot  any  straighter'n  Ol'  Tom." 

Though  still  loyal  to  the  old  Kentucky  rifle  of 
his  forefathers,  this  was  the  gun  he  had  dreamed  of 
possessing  sometime  in  some  way — he  did  not  know 
how — a  gun  he  could  throw  to  his  shoulder  in  an  in- 
stant and  knock  over  a  deer  without  waiting  to  find  a 
rest,  as  he  had  to  do  with  "01'  Tom;"  and  he  sighed 


20  LONG  SWEETENING 

as  he  fondled  it.  If  the  visitor  would  just  let  him 
shoot  it  once,  he  would  be  content  to  wait  for  that  dis- 
tant day  when  he  could  have  one  of  his  own.  When 
he  heard  Arnold  shove  his  stool  back  from  the  table 
he  set  the  gun  down  quickly. 

"By  George!  You've  got  a  great  place  here!"  ex- 
claimed Arnold,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  and  gazed 
around. 

"You  think  so?"  and  the  boy  glowed  with  pride. 
"Most  people  says  hit's  kind  o'  wuthless,  'cause  there 
ain't  no  range  and  mighty  little  timber — mos'ly  all 
bresh  an'  water." 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you  for  my  breakfast?" 

"You  don't  owe  me  nothin',"  replied  young  Carson 
promptly. 

"Oh,  you  had  better  take  something.  I've  paid  five 
dollars  many  a  time  for  a  worse  breakfast  than  that." 

"Five  dollars!  Jes  for  breakfas'?"  gasped  the  boy. 
"You  must  o'  been  almighty  hungry — er  yer  awful 
rich." 

"Both,"  admitted  Arnold. 

Any  one  who  could  pay  such  a  fabulous  sum  for  a 
single  meal  must  be  the  richest  man  in  the  world,  the 
lad  thought,  and  flushed  as  he  recalled  his  unwar- 
ranted suspicions  and  his  incivility  of  the  night  before. 

"Won't  you  take  something?"  insisted  the  guest,  as 
he  drew  out  his  purse,  opened  it  and  showed  a  handful 
of  gold. 

"No-o;  it  wouldn't  be  'zactly  right.    But  if  you — " 

He  was  about  to  ask  permission  to  shoot  the  rifle 


LONG  SWEETENING  21 

once,  but  his  courage  failed  him.    Cartridges,  he  knew, 
were  expensive. 

"But  what?" 

"If  you  want,  I'll  show  you  the  upper  end  o'  the 
lake." 

"I  really  would  like  to  see  a  little  more  of  your 
place." 

"All  right.  Come  on,  an*  I'll  row  you  up."  He 
led  the  way  to  a  flat-bottomed  punt  tied  beneath  the 
drooping  laurels.     "Git  in." 

He  took  the  oars  and  pulled  up  the  lake,  pausing 
occasionally  to  point  out  the  high  feeding-grounds 
where  he  could  always  count  on  getting  a  deer,  the 
lower  runways  where  his  traps  were  set  for  foxes  and 
raccoons,  the  little  meadow  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
lake  where  rabbits  and  quail  were  always  to  be  found, 
and  the  opening  in  the  pine  forest  where  grouse  sunned 
themselves. 

"Do  you  want  to  sell  this  place?"  inquired  Arnold. 

"Nope,"  responded  Wade,  promptly  and  positively. 

"Why  not?" 

"Pap  tor  me  to  hang  on  to  it,  an'  some  day  hit'd  be 
wuth  a  lot  o'  money.  But  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  sell  it. 
I  jes  couldn'  live  nowheres  else." 

"How  will  you  be  able  to  keep  up  the  taxes  on 
it?" 

"Oh,  I  reckon  I  kin  sell  enough  pelts  to  do  that — till 
I  git  big  enough  to  work  out.     Then  hit'll  be  easier." 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  have  to  be  starting  back  to  the 


22  LONG  SWEETENING 

Springs,"  observed  Arnold.    'The  other  fellows  will  be 
out  hunting  for  me." 

Wade  rowed  him  back  to  the  shore  opposite  the  cab- 
in and  gave  him  directions,  warning  him  of  the  diverg- 
ing trails  to  be  avoided.  He  picked  up  the  gun  to 
hand  it  to  Arnold,  then  hesitated. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  go  a  piece  with  you,"  he  decided. 
"You  might  git  lost  ag'in." 

"I  wish  you  would — if  you  have  the  time  to  spare," 
said  Arnold. 

"Ain't  got  much  of  anything  else,"  laughed  the 
boy.  "I'll  pack  your  gun,  if  you  don't  mind,"  and  with- 
out waiting  for  permission  threw  it  over  his  shoulder 
and  started  up  the  trail.  "How  does  she  shoot?"  he 
asked. 

"Perfectly — since  I  had  that  platinum  sight  put  on 
it." 

"No  kick  er  bounce  in  'er,  I  s'pose." 
"Not  a  bit." 

The  lad  had  intended  going  only  to  the  top  of  the 
first  ridge,  from  which  the  greater  part  of  the  trail 
could  be  seen,  but  he  could  not  relinquish  the  rifle  so 
soon.  It  was  a  joy  merely  to  have  it  on  his  shoulder 
and  conjure  up  in  his  imagination  occasions  for  its 
use. 

"If  you  want  to,  you  kin  come  up  to  my  place  and 

hunt  an'  fish,"  he  offered,  thinking  that  an  extended 

visit  might  afford  him  the  opportunity  to  use  the  rifle. 

"I'd  like  to,   but  I've  got  to  hurry  back  to   San 

Francisco,"  replied  Arnold. 


LONG  SWEETENING  23 

"That's  the  place  the  folks  call  'the  city',  ain't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"I  s'pose  you've  traveled  aroun'  quite  a  bit." 

"Yes;  I've  been  to  Europe,  Asia  and  Africa." 

"I  was  to  Potterville  oncet,"  the  boy  boasted. 

Arnold  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  rustic  village 
twenty  miles  away. 

"You've  traveled  some  yourself,"  he  observed. 

"Yeah ;  hit's  quite  a  trip.    I  don't  like  it  there." 

"No?  Why  not?" 

"They's  too  many  people,  an'  I  feel  kind  o'  crowded. 
I  s'pose  the  city's  bigger'n  Potterville,  ain't  it?" 

"Well — yes — rather,"  laughed  Arnold.  "How  long 
have  you  lived  here?" 

"I  was  born  hyur." 

"Where  were  your  people  from?" 

"They  come  fum  Kaintucky  to  Missouri  an'  then 
to  Calif orny — 'cross  the  plains." 

As  they  came  in  sight  of  the  Springs  Arnold  again 
broached  the  subject  of  the  purchase  of  the  lake. 

"I  wish  you  would  change  your  mind  about  selling 
your  place,"  he  said.  "I  will  pay  a  good  fair  price  for 
it." 

"I  don't  want  to  sell  at  no  price,"  declared  the  boy. 
"What'd  I  do  with  the  money?" 

"You  could  put  yourself  through  school  with  it. 
You  ought  to  have  an  education." 

"Did  you  ever  go  to  school?" 


24  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Yes — certainly.  Every  one  has  to,  if  he  wants  to 
get  on  in  the  world." 

"Well,  they  didn't  learn  you  to  git  aroun'  without 
gittin'  lost,  so  I  reckon  they  kain't  learn  me  much." 

"Not  about  this  part  of  the  country — certainly — 
but  there  is  a  lot  of  the  world  outside." 

"This  country's  good  enough  fur  me,  an'  I  calcalate 
to  stay  hyur." 

"Well,  I'm  greatly  indebted  to  you,  my  boy,"  said 
Arnold,  "and  I  wish  you'd  take  something  for  your 
time  and  trouble."  The  boy  shook  his  head.  "Wouldn't 
you  like  to  have  that  gun  ?" 

"To  keep?"  he  gasped,  and  his  heart  gave  a  great 
bound. 

"Certainly."  The  lad  looked  at  it  longingly  but  made 
no  reply.  "I  don't  need  it,"  urged  Arnold.  "I've  got 
half  a  dozen  more." 

"No;  I  kain't  do  it."  The  lad  shook  his  head  re- 
gretfully. "Hit's  jes  like  takin'  pay." 

"Not  at  all.    It's  only  a  present." 

"I'm  feared  I  couldn't  'ford  to  buy  ca'tridges  fur 
it." 

"I've  got  a  supply  here  that  you  can  have,"  said 
Arnold. 

"An'  I  don't  know  how  she  works,"  the  boy  added 
waveringly. 

"I'll  show  you  in  a  second."  Arnold  took  the  gun 
and  demonstrated  its  mechanism.  "Here — take  it,"  and 
he  put  it  in  the  lad's  hands. 

"Right  shore  you  ain't  goin'  to  need  it?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  25 

"Certainly  not." 

"Well — I  guess  hit's  all  right,  but — "  his  lips  quiv- 
ered and  he  brushed  a  sleeve  across  his  eyes —  "any 
time  you  feel  like  it,  come  up  to  my  place  an'  stay  as 
long  as  you  want." 

"Thank  you  very  much.  I  will  avail  myself  of  your 
offer." 

"An*  I'll  keep  the  gun  till  you  come,  an'  if  you  want 
*er  back,  course  you  kin  have  'er." 

"All  right." 

He  gave  the  boy  several  boxes  of  cartridges,  bade 
him  good-bye  and  watched  him  trudge  off  up  the  trail 
with  the  gun  on  his  shoulder.  It  was  well  after  noon, 
a  drizzling  rain:  was  falling,  and  Arnold  was  just 
starting  away  from  Warm  Springs  on  the  daily  stage, 
when  young  Carson  came  running  down  the  hill,  call- 
ing to  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Arnold !"  he  gasped.  "I  jes  wanted  to  say 
'thanky'.  I  was  so  tickled  about  the  gun  that  I  got 
plumb  back  to  the  lake  'fore  I  thought  about  it." 


CHAPTER  III. 

As  far  back  as  he  could  remember  Wade  Carson 
had  been  accustomed  to  little  companionship  and  much 
solitude.  His  home  by  the  lake  was  six  miles  by  a 
direct  trail  from  the  nearest  habitation,  Warm  Springs, 
a  station  on  the  stage  road  across  the  mountains,  and 
rarely  had  he  been  further  from  the  cabin.  Few 
strangers  came  that  way,  and  they  paused  only  long 
enough  to  exchange  the  time  of  day  or  make  neces- 
sary inquiries. 

The  boy's  father  had  taught  him  to  swim,  to  shoot, 
to  fish  and  to  cook  their  humble  fare  almost  as  soon 
as  he  was  able  to  toddle,  and  when  still  little  more 
than  a  baby  he  was  left  alone  day  .after  day  to  amuse 
himself  as  best  he  could,  while  the  elder  Carson  hunted 
and  attended  his  traps.  As  soon  as  he  was  large  and 
strong  enough,  he  was  permitted  to  go  on  short  expedi- 
tions to  acquire  the  essentials  of  a  mountaineer's  edu- 
cation— woodcraft  and  trapping.  When  he  was  but 
seven  years  old  his  father  left  him  alone  to  go  down 
into  the  valleys  and  work  in  the  harvest  fields,  and  for 
three  months  the  child  killed  his  own  game,  cooked  his 
own  food  and  looked  after  the  traps.  Left  so  much  to 
his  own  resources,  he  explored  every  nook  and  corner 
of  the  adjacent  hills  and  developed  a  self-reliance  far 
beyond  his  years. 

In  the  long  winter  evenings  the  elder  Carson,  who 
could  barely  read  and  write,  taught  the  boy  his  A  B 

(26) 


LONG  SWEETENING  27 

Cs  and  to  spell  out  the  words  in  an  old  primer  and 
an  occasional  newspaper,  "skippin'  the  hard  uns."  The 
boy  cared  little  for  learning  but  enjoyed  the  com- 
panionship, so  he  learned  to  write  little  more  than  his 
own  name.  He  was  stimulated  to  that  by  the  oft-re- 
peated story  of  Tamar  Fox,  a  mountain  woman,  so  il- 
literate that  she  was  once  compelled  to  sign  a  deed 
with  a  cross  and  ever  afterward  was  known  in  the 
community  as  "Tamar  X." 

"You  don't  want  folks  a-callin'  you  Wade  X,"  his 
father  would  conclude,  and  the  boy  would  take  a  fresh 
grip  upon  his  stubby  pencil,  wag  his  tongue  and  scrawl 
"Wade  Carson"  over  and  over  again. 

So  his  childhood  passed  without  any  great  joys  but 
with  never-ending  pleasure  in  the  freedom  of  it.  When 
the  father  suddenly  sickened  and  died,  the  lad  wasted 
no  time  in  useless  grief,  but  went  stoically  about  the; 
task  of  burial — splitting  out  lumber  for  a  rude  coffin, 
drawing  the  remains  on  a  sled  to  the  grave  he  had 
dug  on  the  knoll  overlooking  the  lake,  and  lowering 
the  body  into  the  ground  with  ropes  turned  about  a 
nearby  tree.  When  he  had  filled  in  the  grave  and 
smoothed  the  ground  over  it,  he  shouldered  his  gun 
and  went  back  to  look  after  the  neglected  traps,  feel- 
ing that  upon  him  now  rested  the  sole  responsibility 
of  maintaining  the  only  home  he  had  ever  known. 

The  possession  of  the  new  rifle  was  the  first  great 
joy  of  his  life.  He  yearned  to  test  it  from  the  mo- 
ment that  it  became  his,  but  did  not  feel  that  he  could 
afford  to  waste  a  single  cartridge  upon  a  target.  He 


28  LONG  SWEETENING 

hurried  home  with  it,  took  it  apart,  studied  its  mechan- 
ism, cleaned  and  oiled  it  carefully  and  pondered  upon  an 
appropriate  name  for  it.  A  gun  was  as  much  a  member 
of  a  mountaineer's  family  as  his  horse,  his  dog  or  his 
child,  and  to  be  nameless  was  to  be  worthless.  When 
he  looked  at  "Old  Tom"  and  "Betsy,"  resting  on  the 
rack  over  the  mantel,  he  felt  a  twinge  of  remorse  at 
his  apparent  disloyalty,  and  made  partial  amends  by 
taking  them  down  and  polishing  them,  reminding 
them  meanwhile  of  their  manifold  virtues  and  notable 
achievements. 

"You're  gittin'  too  old,  Tom,"  he  argued,  "to  go 
trapesin'  round  over  the  hills.  Better  stay  home  an* 
rest  an'  let  a  young  feller  do  it.  But  I  kain't  git  along 
without  you,  Betsy.  You'll  have  to  keep  on  knockin' 
over  squirrels,  an'  rabbits,  an'  quail  fur  a  spell  yet." 

The  boy  waited  impatiently  for  evening  and  the 
coming  of  the  deer  to  the  lakeside  for  cool  water  and 
lush  grasses.  Though  he  was  in  no  need  of  fresh 
meat,  he  could  always  make  good  use  of  jerked  ven- 
ison, and  deer  skins  brought  a  fair  price.  As  the  time 
approached  he  filled  the  magazine  of  the  new  gun, 
rowed  half  the  length  of  the  lake,  tied  his  boat  and 
hid  himself  in  a  clump  of  bushes  overlooking  a  deer 
trail  that  led  down  from  the  chemissal-covered  hills. 
It  was  just  growing  dusk  when  an  antlered  buck 
stepped  gingerly  out  into  the  little  opening  a  hundred 
yards  away,  stopped  with  head  erect  and  ears  cocked 
to  sniff  the  evening  breeze.    The  boy  raised  the  gun 


LONG  SWEETENING  29 

deliberately,  took  careful  aim  and  fired.  The  deer 
sprang  high  into  the  air  and  fell  dead. 

"'Little  DanTs'  all  right,"  he  declared  instantly 
bestowing  upon  the  new  weapon  the  name  of  the 
mighty  Kentucky  hunter  whose  prowess  had  been  the 
theme  of  many  a  fireside  tale. 

Though  reluctant  to  let  the  gun  out  of  his  hands  for 
a  moment,  he  felt  it  was  due  "Old  Tom"  and  "Betsy" 
that  they  should  have  "Little  DanTs"  company  at 
night  time,  but  he  was  secretly  gratified  to  discover 
that  the  gun  was  too  short  for  the  rack.  With  a  pre- 
tense of  regret  calculated  to  mollify  his  old  friends, 
he  said: 

"Well,  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  take  Tittle  DanT  to  bed 
with  me.  There  don't  seem  to  be  no  other  place  fur 
im. 

The  days  shortened  and  passed  swiftly,  and  winter 
with  its  heavy  rains  and  light  snows  had  begun  to 
close  in,  when  a  stranger  rode  up  to  the  little  cabin 
late  one  afternoon,  announced  that  he  was  a  deputy 
sheriff  and  served  a  subpoena  on  the  boy. 

"What's  this  hyur  say?"  he  asked,  as  he  turned  it 
over  and  examined  it  curiously. 

"Can't  you  read?"  inquired  the  deputy. 

"I  kin  read  some  readin',  but  I  kain't  read  writin' " 
the  lad  admitted. 

"It  says  for  you  to  be  in  court  at  Potterville  on  De- 
cember eighteenth  at  ten  o'clock." 

"When's  that?" 

"Two  weeks  from  tomorrow." 


30  LONG  SWEETENING 

"What's  that  fur,  anyway?" 

"just  to  prove  that  your  father  is  dead." 

"What's  that  got  to  be  proved  fur?  Kain't  they  take 
my  word  fur  it  ?" 

"So's  to  administer  on  his  estate.  You  can't  have 
a  good  clear  title  to  this  property  till  it's  administered 
on." 

Wade  remembered  that  Airnold  had  said  something 
about  the  matter. 

"My  title's  good  enough  fur  me,"  he  declared.  "Pap 
gi'n  me  the  place,  an'  it  was  his'n,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes;  it  stands  in  his  name,  so  you  can't  ever  sell  it 
till  it  is  probated  on,"  advised  the  deputy. 

"I  don't  calcalate  to  sell  it." 

"It's  got  to  be  administered  on  just  the  same,"  de- 
clared the  officer.     "It's  the  law." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  go  down  thar  an'  talk 
to  the  Jedge  about  it." 

"You'll  have  to  go,  or  you'll  be  fined  for  contempt 
of  court,"  warned  the  deputy. 

In  order  to  appear  in  court  at  the  time  fixed  it  would 
be  necessary  for  the  boy  to  start  for  the  county  seat 
the  day  before,  and  he  devoted  much  time  and  thought 
to  his  plans  for  the  long  journey.  He  sorted  his  pelts, 
cooked  corn  pone  enough  to  last  him  a  couple  of  days, 
tied  up  a  bundle  of  jerked  venison  and  a  package  of 
coffee,  selected  a  tin  plate,  tin  cup,  coffee  pot  and  knife 
and  fork  and  made  the  whole  into  a  pack  that  could 
be  conveniently  carried. 


LONG  SWEETENING  31 

When  the  day  of  his  departure  came  rain  was  falling 
in  torrents,  and  he  waited  for  the  weather  to  moderate 
a  little,  but  as  there  was  no  cessation  of  the  downpour 
by  noon  time,  he  put  on  moccasins,  tied  on  buckskin 
leggins,  shouldered  his  pack  and  "Little  Dan'l"  and 
took  the  most  direct  route  across  the  mountains.  He 
was  wet  to  the  skin  before  he  had  gone  a  mile,  but  he 
was  accustomed  to  such  exposure  and  plodded  steadily 
on. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  strode  down 
the  middle  of  the  main  street  of  the  village,  avoiding 
the  sidewalks  that  appeared  to  him  to  be  crowded,  and 
ignoring  the  jibes  and  laughter  that  his  quaint  ap- 
pearance excited  among  the  townspeople.  He  soon 
disposed  of  his  pelts,  inquired  the  way  to  a  livery  stable 
and  asked  the  privilege  of  sleeping  in  the  hay  for  the 
night.  Such  accommodation  had  been  given  him  and 
his  father  on  a  previous  visit,  and  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  go  to  a  hotel,  where,  as  he  had  been 
informed,  it  cost  a  "whole  half  a  dollar"  just  for  a  bed. 
He  sat  by  the  big  box-stove  in  the  office  of  the  stable, 
dried  his  clothing,  boiled  his  coffee,  munched  his  corn 
pone  and  "jerky,"  smoked  his  pipe  and  retired  to  the 
hay  mow  to  roll  himself  in  the  horse  blankets  the 
stableman  lent  him.  He  was  up  again  at  daylight  and 
breakfasted  as  he  had  supped. 

"Whar'll  I  find  the  Jedge  o'  the  court?"  he  asked. 

"Up  to  the  court  house,"  said  the  stableman.  "Just 
wait  around  till  the  Sheriff  comes  out  on  the  porch  up- 


32  LONG  SWEETENING 

stairs  and  hollers :     'Oh,  yes !    Oh,  yes  ¥    Then  f  oiler 
the  crowd." 

With  his  gun  on  his  shoulder  and  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth  he  loitered  about  the  plaza,  pondering  on  what 
he  should  say  to  the  Judge  and  staring  in  wonder  at 
the  high  dome  of  the  new  two-story  courthouse,  which 
he  "reckoned  must  be  'bout  the  biggest  buildin'  in  the 
world." 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  delay,  court  was 
finally  called,  and  young  Carson  followed  other  loit- 
erers to  the  courtroom,  found  a  seat  and  listened  at- 
tentively to  the  proceedings  without  in  the  least  under- 
standing what  they  were  all  about. 

"Wade  Carson !"  called  an  attorney  before  the  bar. 

"Hyur !"  responded  the  boy,  as  he  had  heard  others 
answer,  and  stepped  quickly  forward  with  his  cap  and 
rifle  in  his  hands. 

"Put  down  that  gun!"  ordered  the  Sheriff,  with  a 
pretense  of  severity. 

"Don't  be  a  feared.  I  ain't  a-goin*  to  shoot  nobody," 
replied  the  boy  in  surprise,  and  a  titter  ran  through 
the  courtroom. 

The  attorney  took  the  rifle,  set  it  down  and  mo- 
tioned the  lad  to  the  witness  stand.  He  understood  it 
to  be  the  granting  of  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  the 
Judge. 

"Hit's  this  away,  Jedge.    I—" 

"Be  sworn,"  ordered  the  Judge  crustily. 

"Hold  up  your  right  hand!"  instructed  the  clerk, 
and  he  administered  the  oath.     "Sit  down." 


LONG  SWEETENING 


33 


In  response  to  the  attorney's  questions  he  testified 
to  his  father's  death,  and  that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  he 
had  no  relatives. 

"Petition  of  the  Public  Administrator  is  granted/' 
ordered  the  court.  "This  boy  is  a  minor,  and  a  peti- 
tion should  be  filed  for  the  appointment  of  a  guardian." 

"  'Scuse  me,  Jedge,"  protested  the  boy.  "I  ain't  no 
miner.  I'm  a  hunter  an'  trapper,  an'  I  don't  need  no 
minister  or  guardeen  nuther." 

"Recess  till  two  o'clock,"  growled  the  irascible  old 
Judge,  and  stalked  away  to  his  chambers. 

Wade,  hopelessly  at  sea,  left  the  witness  stand,  picked 
up  his  rifle,  pulled  his  coonskin  cap  over  his  eyes  and 
looked  around  him  appealingly,  but  no  one  offered  him 
any  explanation  of  the  proceedings.  He  stalked  over 
to  the  attorney  who  had  questioned  him  and  faced  the 
man  defiantly. 

"Say!  What  you-all  a-tryin'  to  do  with  me  an* 
my  prope'ty?"  he  demanded. 

"We  are  merely  pursuing  legal  methods  for  the  pro- 
tection of  both,"  replied  the  attorney. 

"What's  the  reason  you  kain't  jes  leave  me  be?" 

"It's  all  right,  son,"  the  Sheriff  assured  him,  as  he 
laid  a  friendly  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "Maybe 
you  don't  understand  it,  but  it's  all  strictly  according 
to  law." 

"You  ain't  got  no  call  to  bring  the  law  on  me," 
Wade  protested.     "I  ain't  done  nothin'." 

"No;  of  course  not.  We  all  know  that.  But  you 
don't  want  to  buck  against  the  law,  now  do  you,  son  ?" 


34  LONG  SWEETENING 

"No-o;  I  reckon  not,"  admitted  the  boy  doubtfully. 

"I  suppose  you  will  consent  to  act  as  his  guardian," 
observed  the  attorney. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to,"  laughed  the  Sheriff. 
"I've  got  so  many  wards  that  one  more  won't  make 
any  difference." 

Sheriff  Tom  Burke  was  a  man  who  invariably  in- 
spired instantaneous  confidence.  In  his  keen  blue  eyes 
there  was  the  twinkle  of  sympathetic  comprehension; 
in  his  square  jaws  the  assurance  of  unfaltering  deter- 
mination; on  his  firm  but  sensitive  lips  the  pledge  of 
loyalty.  Born  in  an  Irish  bog,  transplanted  to  a  Mis- 
souri farm,  orphaned  in  his  childhood  and  compelled 
to  shift  for  himself,  he  was  surprised  on  reaching  ma- 
turity to  discover  that  he  had,  in  violation  of  all  tradi- 
tions of  family  and  environment,  learned  to  read  and 
write.  When  he  found  himself  broke,  in  a  community 
so  illiterate  that  his  meager  attainments  stamped  him 
as  a  man  of  profound  erudition,  he  decided  to  teach 
school.  He  heard  of  a  newly  organized  school  district 
and  applied  to  the  trustees,  three  weather-beaten 
mountaineers,  for  the  position  of  teacher. 

"What  kin  yo'  teach?"  inquired  the  chairman  of  the 
board. 

"Reading,  writing  and — "  he  groped  for  a  moment 
—  "'rithmetic." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  but  do  you  teach  this  hyur 
new-fangled  stuff  they  cal  'j'ogerphy?' " 

"Yep,"  replied  Burke  promptly,  though  he  had  never 
heard  of  it. 


LONG  SWEETENING  35 

"How  do  you  teach  her?" 

"Oh,  any  way  you  like." 

"Well,  we've  talked  it  all  over,  an'  I  reckon  you'd 
better  teach  her  flat,"  decided  the  chairman.  "We  all 
come  across  the  plains,  an'  I  guess  if  there'd  been  any 
bulge  in  the  world  we  c'd  of  saw  it." 

For  three  years  his  instruction  in  geography  was 
a  flat  success,  for  no  pupil  remained  in  school  long 
enough  to  get  beyond  the  map  of  California.  Burke's^ 
reputation  for  honesty,  courage  and  kindliness  gave 
him  a  popularity  that  had  forced  him  into  office  in 
the  beginning  and  had  kept  him  there  for  three  suc- 
cessive terms.  Being  a  bachelor,  with  no  living  rela- 
tives so  far  as  he  knew,  all  of  his  salary  and  much  of 
his  time  was  devoted  to  private  benefactions,  and  he 
was  not  only  the  self-appointed  guardian  of  numerous 
orphans  but  the  mainstay  of  many  indigent  widows. 
No  one  in  distress  ever  appealed  to  Tom  Burke  in 
vain,  and  often  substantial  assistance  was  rendered 
by  him  before  an  appeal  could  be  made.  It  had  be- 
come the  usual  thing  for  the  court  to  appoint  him 
whenever  a  .guardian  was  necessary,  as  he  invariably 
refused  to  accept  the  fees  allowed  by  law  and  took  al- 
most a  paternal  interest  in  the  welfare  of  his  wards. 

"How  would  you  like  to  have  me  for  your  guardian, 
son?"  he  asked  the  boy. 

"I  ain't  got  no  objection  to  you,"  he  replied,  "but 
I  kin  take  keer  o'  myself." 

"I'll  bet  you  can,"  declared  the  Sheriff,  and  he  patted 
Wade  on  the  back  approvingly.     "But  it's  this  way, 


36  LONG  SWEETENING 

son;  you've  got  property,  and  you're  not  of  age,  and 
the  law  says  that  you've  got  to  have  a  guardian  to 
look  after  you  and  your  property." 

"A  guardian  stands  in  loco  parentis — that  is,  in  the 
place  of  a  parent,"  expounded  the  attorney. 

"Of  course,  I  can't  exactly  take  your  daddy's  place," 
said  the  Sheriff,  "but  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

"Then  I  s'pose  you'll  come  out  to  my  place  to  live 
an'  help  look  after  the  traps,"  said  Wade. 

"No;  I  can't  do  that  without  giving  up  my  job 
as  Sheriff,"  laughed  Burke.  "Suppose  you  come  and 
live  in  town,  and  go  to  school,  and  help  me  be  Sheriff." 
The  boy  shook  his  head.  "If  your  father  had  been 
elected  Sheriff,  that's  what  he'd  have  you  do.  You 
better  think  it  over,"  urged  Burke. 

"There  ain't  no  thinkin'  to  be  did.  I  calcalate  to 
stay  at  the  lake." 

"All  right.  Come  have  something  to  eat  with  me, 
and  we'll  talk  things  over." 

The  Sheriff  led  the  boy  to  the  village  restaurant, 
provided  him  with  a  meal  such  as  he  had  never  before 
eaten  and  little  by  little  drew  from  him  the  meager 
story  of  his  uneventful  life.  Burke  recalled  the  boy's 
father,  Caleb  Carson,  as  one  of  several  squatters  whom 
he  had  once  had  under  investigation  as  the  possible 
perpetrators  of  a  stage  robbery — a  tall,  gaunt  and 
swarthy  mountaineer,  whose  few  words  and  direct  gaze 
were  as  convincing  as  they  were  disconcerting. 

"I  ketch  varmints;  you  ketch  robbers,"  he  had 
said,  "an*  I  'tend  strickly  to  my  own  business,"  and 


LONG  SWEETENING  37 

the  Sheriff's  acquaintance  with  the  elder  Carson  ended 
there. 

Wade's  keen  perceptions,  self-reliance  and  quiet  de- 
termination impressed  Burke  and  aroused  in  him  even 
more  interest  than  he  usually  felt  in  his  wards.  Some- 
thing in  the  peculiar  aloof tness  and  defiance  of  the 
boy's  nature  appealed  to  him  as  singularly  pathetic. 
The  very  fact  that  young  Carson  himself  was  utterly 
unconscious  of  his  loneliness,  seemed  actually  to  feel 
the  need  of  no  one  and  depended  so  completely  upon 
himself  and  his  own  resources  accentuated  rather  than 
mitigated  the  pathos  of  it.  Burke  knew  that  under 
no  circumstances  would  the  boy  ask  help  or  expect 
pity  from  any  one.  Hie  knew  that  such  a  soul  would 
never  spare  itself  and  could  not  fail  to  suffer. 

"He  will  be  somebody  some  day,  if  he  only  has  a 
chance,"  he  thought. 

The  Sheriff  discussed  the  benefits  of  an  education, 
told  anecdotes  of  boys  who  had  achieved  success 
through  the  opportunities  it  afforded  and  elaborated  on 
the  pleasant  diversions  of  town  life,  in  the  hope  of 
luring  the  lad  away  from  the  mountains.  Wade  list- 
ened politely  and  attentively,  but  with  little  interest. 
His  ignorance  of  everything  beyond  the  wild  free  life 
he  had  lived  was  so  profound,  and  he  was  so  thorough- 
ly contented  with  his  lot,  that  nothing  could  alter  his 
determination. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  better  be  a-movin',  if  I  want  to 
git  back  'fore  dark,"  he  said  at  last. 


38  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Better  stay  here  in  town  a  day  or  two — just  for 
a  visit — and  see  how  you  like  it,"  urged  the  Sheriff. 

"No — thanky  jes  the  same.  I  got  to  git  back  an' 
look  after  the  traps." 

"All  right,  son,"  yielded  the  Sheriff  regretfully. 
"But  it'll  be  pretty  lonesome  for  you  out  there  this 
Winter,  won't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno.    I  don't  mind." 

"Come  along  with  me,  and  I'll  get  you  something 
to  keep  you  company." 

The  Sheriff  led  the  boy  to  a  book  store  and  bought 
copies  of  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  "The  Swiss  Family 
Robinson"  and  "The  Life  and  Adventures  of  James 
Capen  Adams"  for  him. 

"They're  good  books,  son,  and  I  guess  they're  all 
true.  This  one  is,  because  I  knew  Adams  and  the 
man  that  wrote  the  book,  and  they  wouldn't  lie.  Now, 
don't  go  to  shooting  up  anybody  or  holding  up  any 
stages,"  he  admonished  the  boy,  "without  talking  it 
over  with  me  first." 

"I  won't,"  promised  Wade.  "I  calcalate  to  'tend  to 
my  own  business  an'  let  other  folks  alone." 

"That's  right.  And  don't  forget  that  I'm  your  pap 
now,  and  if  anything  goes  wrong,  you  come  right 
straight  to  me  about  it,  won't  you  ?" 

"I  shore  will." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Winter  passed  swiftly  for  the  young  hunter. 
The  short  days  were  more  than  long  enough,  however, 
to  enable  him  to  give  his  traps  the  attention  they  re- 
quired, cure  the  pelts  and  do  the  necessary  hunting 
and  cooking.  The  long  evenings  he  spent  lying  on 
the  floor  before  the  fireplace  and  laboriously  spelling 
out  the  stories  his  guardian  had  given  him.  There  was 
much  in  them  that  he  did  not  understand,  but  he  was 
able  to  follow  the  thread  of  the  narratives;  and  the 
adventures  of  the  castaways  and  the  hair-breadth  es- 
capes of  the  mighty  hunter  and  tamer  of  grizzlies  fas- 
cinated him. 

Wade  was  reminded  that  he  had  once  found  a  small 
opening  high  on  the  side  of  the  monster  redwood  at 
the  edge  of  the  forest  only  a  few  yards  from  his 
cabin,  and  that  the  tree  was  hollow  to  its  base.  He 
climbed  up  to  it  again  and  inspected  it.  A  growth  of 
suckers  concealed  the  opening,  and  the  hollow  was  half 
the  size  of  his  house.  It  would  make  an  ideal  hiding 
place,  and  who  could  tell  when  it  might  be  necessary  to 
find  concealment  there?  So  at  the  first  spare  moment 
he  constructed  rude  steps  down  the  inside  of  the  tree, 
carpeted  the  dry  earth  at  the  bottom  with  ferns  and 
deposited  a  supply  of  jerked  venison  and  a  jug  of 
water  for  an  emergency. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  overlooking  the  little 
meadow,  was  the  Hog's  Back,  a  sheer  wall  of  rock, 

(39) 


40  LONG  SWEETENING 

like  the  blade  of  a  knife  on  edge,  with  flanking  hills 
at  either  end.  In  the  far  distant  past,  before  the  waters 
of  the  lake  had  worked  a  lower  outlet  through  the 
fallen  mountains  to  the  North,  they  had  tumbled  over 
the  rock  and  rushed  down  the  canyon  to  the  South. 
Wade  had  once  slipped  on  the  face  of  the  cliff,  rolled 
and  slid  fifty  feet  and  lodged  in  a  cluster  of  chap- 
arral, which,  he  discovered,  concealed  the  mouth  of 
a  cave.  He  visited  the  place  again,  found  that  the 
rock  was  of  soft  sandstone  and  estimated  that  a  tun- 
nel twenty  feet  long  would  pierce  the  wall.  Both  the 
cave  and  the  contemplated  exit  at  the  rear  were  ac- 
cessible by  a  careful  but  perilous  climb,  and  neither, 
except  by  merest  chance,  could  ever  be  discovered. 

With  a  crowbar,  pick  and  shovel  he  set  to  work, 
and  in  a  month  he  had  completed  his  tunnel  and  made 
"toe  holts"  on  both  walls,  cunningly  concealing  the 
steps  with  moss  and  leaves.  Then  he  provisioned  the 
place  and  occupied  much  of  his  time  in  conjuring  up 
imaginary  invasions,  battles,  pursuits  and  escapes,  in 
all  of  which  the  hollow  tree  and  the  tunnel  figured 
prominently,  and  "Little  Dan'1"  distinguished  himself. 

Winter  passed,  the  blustery  showers  of  early  Spring 
were  over  and  the  .long,  lazy  days  of  June  had  come: 
and  with  them  came  the  growing  fear  in  Wade's  heart 
that  the  Summer  might  bring  John  Arnold  back  to 
claim  the  gun.  What  would  he  ever  do  without  "Lit- 
tle Dan'1?"  His  heart  sank  and  he  grew  chill  at  the 
thought  of  parting  from  his  faithful  companion.  He 
meditated  upon  some  subterfuge  by  which  he  might 


LONG  SWEETENING  41 

keep  the  gun.  He  could  hide  it  in  the  hollow  tree  and 
tell  Arnold  it  had  been  stolen,  but  he  remembered 
the  admonition  of  his  dying  father — "don't  lie,  an' 
don't  cheat,  an'  don't  fight,  'less  you  have  to,  an' 
then  fight  fa'r  an'  squar'  like  a  man" — and  he  knew 
that  if  Arnold  came,  he  would  have  to  give  up  the 
gun. 

Wade  was  sitting  on  the  bench  at  his  cabin  door 
smoking  his  pipe  and  watching  the  bees  buzzing  around 
the  honeysuckle,  just  beginning  to  bloom.  He  marked 
the  course  of  their  flight,  as  they  departed  with  their 
burdens,  and  two  or  three  times  he  had  decided  to 
trail  them  to  their  tree,  so  that  he  could  have  honey 
later  in  the  season;  but  each  time  he  shouldered  his 
gun  and  started,  he  set  it  down  again,  for  no  particu- 
lar reason,  and  resumed  his  seat  on  the  bench.  As  the 
day  wore  on  his  restlessness  increased,  and  each  task 
he  attempted  was  quickly  abandoned. 

"Somethin's  goin'  to  happen/'  he  muttered,  warned 
by  that  sixth  sense  which  much  solitude  develops. 

At  about  noon  time  he  started  up  from  his  bench 
and  listened,  but  heard  nothing  and  sat  down  again. 

"Somebody's  comin',  shore,"  he  mused,  and  waited, 
watching  the  forest  where  the  old  road  emerged. 

Within  a  few  minutes  he  heard  the  thud  of  many 
hoofs.  Almost  immediately  a  horseman,  leading  a 
train  of  pack  mules,  appeared,  closely  followed  by  two 
women  on  horses — one  of  them  carrying  a  baby — 
and  by  another  man,  also,  mounted.  He  waved  his 
hand  to  Wade  and  shouted : 


42  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Hello,  young  fellow!    How  are  you?" 

The  boy's  heart  sank  and  his  face  grew  pale.  It 
was  John  Arnold — come  for  "Little  Dan'l." 

"Why — hello,  Mr.  Arnold!"  he  responded  weakly, 
and  he  went  up  the  slope  to  meet  his  visitors. 

Arnold  helped  one  of  the  women  off  her  horse. 
"This  is  Mrs.  Arnold,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
Wade. 

She  smiled  and  nodded,  and  the  boy  bobbed  his 
head  without  removing  his  coonskin  cap. 

"This  is  the  boy,  Elizabeth,  that  gave  me  long 
sweet'nin',"  added  Arnold.  "What  do  you  think  of 
this  place  ?"  He  waved  his  arm  over  the  scene  before 
her. 

"Oh,  it's  perfectly  gorgeous!"  gasped  Mrs.  Arnold. 
"I  had  no  idea,  even  from  your  enthusiastic  descrip- 
tions, that  it  was  so  beautiful." 

Arnold  took  the  baby,  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Arnold  and 
lifted  the  nursemaid  off  her  horse,  while  Wade  won- 
dered how  he  could  possibly  provide  accommodations 
for  so  many  guests.  When  he  had  invited  Arnold  to 
visit  him  he  had  not  thought  of  entertaining  a  family. 

"Where  is  the  best  place  for  us  to  camp?"  asked 
Arnold. 

"You  'low  to  camp  out?" 

"Yes;  we've  got  our  outfit." 

"Oh,  let's  have  our  tent  down  there,"  begged  Mrs. 
Arnold,  pointing  to  the  grove  of  laurels. 

"Better  not,"  advised  Wade.  "Them  pepperwoods 
'11  give  you  a  headache  if  you  stay  in  'em  too  long. 


LONG  SWEETENING  43 

Better  camp  thar,"  and  he  indicated  a  level  spot  among 
the  redwoods  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  that  gave  a 
commanding  view  of  the  lake. 

"That  looks  all  right,"  approved  Arnold. 

While  the  guide  was  unpacking  the  mules  the  visi- 
tors sauntered  down  toward  the  cabin. 

"Set  down  an'  rest,"  invited  Wade.  He  brought 
out  a  couple  of  stools  and  placed  them  by  the  bench. 

"How  did  you  get  on  with  the  rifle?"  inquired  Ar- 
nold. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  replied  Wade  without  enthusiasm. 
"Hit's  all  ready  for  you,"  he  added,  wondering  if  Ar- 
nold might  not  leave  it  with  him  again  when  he  went 
away. 

"Oh,  I  brought  my  own  guns,"  said  Arnold. 

"Can't  I  git  you  a  drink  of  water?"  asked  the  boy, 
and  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  hurried  into 
the  cabin  to  brush  the  tears  of  relief  from  his  eyes. 

"Is  this  filtered?"  asked  Mrs.  Arnold,  when  he 
returned  with  a  bucket  and  a  tin  cup. 

"Yes'm.  Hit  filters  thoo  the  hill  an'  comes  out  over 
yon,"  he  pointed  to  the  base  of  the  mountain  opposite. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  the  spring  water  up  here, 
Elizabeth,"  laughed  Arnold. 

"Get  the  baby's  handbag,  Marie,"  ordered  Mrs.  Ar- 
nold, after  they  had  drunk  deeply  of  the  cold  spring 
water. 

The  maid  set  the  baby  on  its  feet  and  went  up  the 
slope  after  the  satchel.  The  child  stared  at  Wade 
out  of  big,  wondering,  blue  eyes,  then  toddled  over 


44  LONG  SWEETENING 

to  him,  dimpling  and  crowing,  and  tried  to  clasp 
his  leg  with  her  chubby  arms.  He  wanted  to  pick 
her  up  and  hold  her  in  his  arms,  but  he  had  never  seen 
a  baby  before,  and  he  had  a  vague  fear  that  a  touch 
might  crush  the  little  pink  and  white  thing,  so  he 
backed  away  in  confusion. 

"Look,  John  P  exclaimed  Mrs.  Arnold.  "And  she's 
usually  so  fearful  of  strangers." 

"You've  made  a  hit  with  her,  Wade,"  chuckled 
Arnold. 

Mrs.  Arnold  turned  to  the  mountain  opposite,  where 
cascades  were  flashing  in  the  sunlight  and  great  Wood- 
wardia  ferns  were  dancing  in  the  silver  showers. 

"The  bungalow  must  be  right  there,  John,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  spot  that  had  been  selected  for  their 
camp.    "And  you  must  have  it  put  up  at  once." 

"Yes — certainly,"  acquiesced  Arnold  hastily. 

"That  must  be  some  kind  of  a  new-fangled  tent," 
thought  Wade.  "Think  you're  goin'  to  like  it  up 
hyur?"  he  asked  of  Mrs.  Arnold. 

"Like  it!  I  adore  it  already  I  I  don't  see  how 
you  ever  could  have  sold  it." 

Wade  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  a  puzzled 
way  and  grinned.  This  was  some  joke  he  didn't  un- 
derstand. 

"I'm  so  glad  that  you  bought  it  before  anybody  else 
saw  it,  John,"  Mrs.  Arnold  added.  "What  a  perfect 
summer  home  it  will  be!" 

Wade  looked  to  Arnold  for  the  expected  explana- 
tion, but  his  visitor  only  flushed  and  remained  silent. 


LONG  SWEETENING  45 

"I  reckon  there's  some  mistake  about  that,"  said 
Wade  gravely.     "I  ain't  sold  this  place." 

Mrs.  Arnold  looked  at  her  husband  questioningly. 

"The  Public  Administrator  sold  it,"  he  explained. 
"Didn't  you  know  that?"  he  asked  Wade. 

"No-o,"  he  replied.    "An'  I  don't  know  it  yit." 

"Why,  he  had  to  sell  it  to  pay  the  expenses  of  admin- 
istration, and  I  bought  it." 

"How  kin  anybody  else  sell  my  prope'ty,  I'd  like  to 
know?"  demanded  the  boy. 

"The  court  ordered  him  to  do  it." 

"An*  you  bought  it  fum  somebody  else  what  didn't 
own  it  ?    You  knew  all  the  time  hit  was  mine." 

"You  don't  understand  it,  miy  boy,"  protested  Ar- 
nold. "It  was  all  according  to  law.  I  bought  it  and 
paid  for  it,  and  I  have  just  come  up  to  take  formal 
possession." 

"You  'low  to  take  possession  o'  my  place?" 

"But  it's  mine,  now." 

"I'll  see  about  that."  The  boy  backed  quickly  into 
the  cabin. 

"John,"  said  Mrs.  Arnold  gravely,  "you  didn't  take 
any  unfair  advantage  of  that  boy,  did  you?" 

"Of  course  not,  my  dear.  The  property  was  put 
up  at  auction,  and  I  was  the  highest — " 

"You  git  offen  this  place  an'  git  quick!" 

Arnold  wheeled  and  looked  into  the  muzzle  of  a 
rifle  that  rested  against  the  door  jamb. 

"You  hear  what  I  say?    Git!" 


46  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Hey!  What  are  you  doing  there!"  gasped  Arnold, 
shrinking  back  and  raising  his  hands  above  his  head. 
"Point  that  gun  the  other  way!" 

"You  p'int  your  nose  the  other  way  an'  git  outen 
hyur!"  ordered  the  boy. 

Mrs.  Arnold  sprang  in  front  of  her  husband,  flung 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  began  to  scream  hysteri- 
cally. The  guide  left  his  horses  and  ran  toward  them 
to  learn  the  cause  of  her  alarm. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  shouted. 

"He's  trying  to  shoot  Mr.  Arnold,"  screamed  the 
woman. 

"Arrest  him !"  ordered  Arnold. 

"Here!  Here!  Put  down  that  gun!"  The  man 
advanced  toward  Wade. 

"You  better  keep  outen  this,  er  you'll  have  some 
trouble  on  yer  own  hands,"  warned  the  boy,  and  the 
fellow  stopped. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  he  demanded. 

"No,  an'  I  don't  keer.  You-all  git  out  o'  hyur!" 
The  guide  advanced  cautiously.  "Better  not  come  any 
closter,"  warned  Wade.     His  tone  was  convincing. 

"Look  a  here,"  argued  the  stranger.  "I'm  Con- 
stable, and  I  can  arrest  you  for  this.  Here's  my 
badge." 

"This  is  my  place,  an'  you-uns  got  ter  git  offen  it. 
I  don't  keer  who  you  are." 

"Don't  you  know  that  Mr.  Arnold  bought  this  place 
according  to  law?"  asked  the  Constable. 

"They  ain't  no  law  fur  robbin'  a  boy." 


LONG  SWEETENING  47 

"Now  you  listen  to  me,"  parleyed  the  official. 

"You  listen  to  me.  You  git !"  ordered  the  boy,  em- 
phatically and  peremptorily. 

"You'll  save  yourself  a  lot  of  trouble  if  you'll 
listen.  You  let  that  gun  go  off  and  kill  anybody,  and 
you'll  be  hung  as  sure  as  shootin'." 

"Are  you  a-goin'  ?" 

The  lad  pressed  his  cheek  against  the  stock  of  his 
rifle  and  peered  through  the  sights.  The  Arnolds  hur- 
ried away  toward  the  horses,  and  the  Constable  re- 
treated a  few  steps,  then  stopped  again. 

"Now  look  a  here,"  he  argued.  "You  can't  buck 
against  the  law.  There's  only  one  thing  to  do — let 
Arnold  have  possession,  and  if  he  hasn't  any  right  to 
it,  you  can  get  it  back." 

"No,  sir!  I'd  have  to  go  to  law,  an'  I  ain't  got  no 
money  fur  lawin'." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  you  do.  You  come  with 
me  tomorrow  to  Potterville  and  ask  the  Judge  and 
the  Sheriff  about  it.  If  they  say  Arnold  hasn't  any 
right  here,  I'll  come  back  and  throw  him  off,  and  it 
won't  cost  you  a  cent.     That's  fair,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  reluctantly,  "it's  fair  enough 
if  you'll  do  what  you  say." 

"I'll  do  it,  sure.  You  don't  think  I  want  to  help 
anybody  in  any  gouging  game,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  that,  but  I  guess 
mebbe  it's  best."  He  yielded,  feeling  confident  that 
Arnold  was  a  mere  interloper  and  that  the  Sheriff 
would  speedily  adjust  matters,  if  the  Constable  didn't. 


48  LONG  SWEETENING 

"It  sure  is,"  coincided  the  officer.  "Put  down  the 
gun  and  come  to  town  with  me,  and  I  won't  say  any- 
thing about  this  little  matter." 

Wade  was  lowering  the  rifle  when  he  heard  a  splash* 
He  glanced  quickly  toward  the  lake  and  saw  a  bit  of 
pink  cloth  disappear  beneath  the  water,  leaving  only 
widening  ripples  upon  the  surface.  In  the  excite- 
ment of  the  clash  between  the  conflicting  claimants  the 
baby  had  toddled  unobserved  to  the  water's  edge  and 
had  fallen  in.  Wade  threw  a  startled  glance  at  the 
others,  who  were  still  watching  him  and  unaware  of 
the  accident,  dropped  the  gun,  ran  for  the  lake  and 
dived  in. 

"He's  going  to  drown  himself!"  cried  Mrs.  Arnold. 

But  he  quickly  came  to  the  surface,  holding  a  little 
pink  bundle  high  above  his  head. 

"It's  the  baby !"  screamed  Mrs.  Arnold,  and  ran  to- 
ward the  lake. 

Wade  swam  to  a  landing  place,  gave  the  child  into 
the  hands  of  the  Constable  and  stalked  back  to  the 
cabin,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  Arnolds. 
The  man  up-ended  the  baby  and  slapped  her  vigorous- 
ly on  the  back.  After  a  deal  of  coughing,  sputtering 
and  gasping  she  opened  her  eyes  and  began  to  cry 
lustily. 

Mrs.  Arnold  hugged  her,  kissed  her,  wept  over  her, 
helped  the  maid  put  dry  clothing  on  her  and  then 
looked  for  the  boy.  He  was  sitting  on  the  bench  dry- 
ing himself  in  the  sun,  smoking  his  pipe  and  watching 
them  through  narrowed  lids.     She  rushed  to  him, 


LONG  SWEETENING  49 

poured  out  a  flood  of  grateful  words  and  tried  to  kiss 
him,  but  he  slipped  away  from  her  and  retreated 
into  the  cabin.  When  Arnold  attempted  to  follow 
the  door  was  slammed  in  his  face  and  the  latch-string 
was  drawn  in. 

"You  must  do  something  for  hin\  John,"  pleaded 
Mrs.  Arnold. 

"I  intend  to — if  he  will  let  me."  The  banker's  hand 
went  into  his  pocket. 

"You  might  find  him  a  job,"  suggested  the  Con- 
stable. 

"That's  what  I'll  do,"  declared  Arnold.  "I'll  want 
a  guide  in  Summer  and  a  keeper  in  Winter — a  good 
job,  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"I'll  talk  to  him  when  he  rides  into  town  with  me 
to-morrow,"  volunteered  the  official,  "and  I'll  get  the 
Sheriff  to  put  in  a  word.  He'll  be  more  likely  to 
listen  when  he  finds  out  that  you  own  the  place." 

Wade,  standing  with  his  back  against  the  door  while 
he  blinked  the  glare  of  the  sunlight  out  of  his  eyes, 
heard  every  word  of  it,  and  he  knew  he  had  been 
tricked  into  a  truce — that  Arnold's  claim  of  owner- 
ship was  not  what  he  had  believed  it,  a  mere  piece 
of  effrontery,  but  that  he  was  in  the  grip  of  that 
mysterious  and  sinister  force  dreaded  and  avoided  by 
all  mountaineers — the  law.  His  rage,  rekindled,  blazed 
anew.  He  seized  his  rifle  and  started  for  the  dooi. 
He  would  kill  these  intruders  as  he  would  a  pair  of 
rattlesnakes.  His  hand  was  on  the  latch,  when  the 
murmur  of  voices — women's  voices — checked  him.  He 


5o  LONG  SWEETENING 

could  kill  the  men — but  what  of  the  women — and  the 
child? 

In  that  momentary  pause  came  the  reaction.  A 
deathly  chill  swept  over  him  from  head  to  foot,  leav- 
ing him  weak  and  nauseated.  The  cabin  began  to  re- 
volve about  him.  The  gun  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  he 
lurched  toward  the  table,  clinging  to  it  with  both  hands 
to  steady  himself.  All  about  him  was  whirling  chaos, 
and  he,  in  a  vacuum  at  the  vortex,  was  gasping  for 
breath.  He  sank  upon  a  stool  and  stared  about  him, 
amazed  to  find  that  everything  was  in  its  place  and 
motionless.  Suddenly  he  felt  himself  pierced  by  an 
agonizing  pain,  as  though  giant  hands  were  gripping 
his  vitals.  He  wrapped  his  arms  about  him  and  slowly 
wilted,  bent  and  crumpled  till  his  face  rested  on  his 
knees.  It  wrenched  a  groan  from  him  and  then  gradu- 
ally subsided  into  a  dull  ache,  only  a  little  less  poignant. 
Though  his  forehead  was  beaded  with  perspiration,  his 
teeth  began  to  chatter,  and  his  body  was  shaken  with 
a  chill.  Supporting  himself  with  one  hand  on  the 
table,  he  staggered  to  his  bunk  against  the  wall,  crawled 
under  the  pile  of  ragged  blankets  and  mangy  furs  and 
lay  with  closed  eyes,  listening  to  the  song  of  a  linnet 
in  the  rose  bush,  the  lapping  of  the  lake  on  the  shore 
and  the  murmur  of  voices,  punctuated  by  Arnold's 
care- free  laugh. 

"I  shorely  feel  like  a  gut-shot  deer,"  he  muttered, 
and  drew  the  covers  over  his  ears. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  new  grand  jury,  regularly  drawn  from  the  body 
of  the  county,  had  been  duly  impaneled  and  solemnly 
instructed  as  to  its  duties.  It  had  considered  the  mat- 
ters presented  by  the  District  Attorney,  had  heard 
numerous  witnesses  and  had  returned  a  few  indict- 
ments ;  and  as  soon  as  the  annual  examination  into  the 
accounts  of  the  county  officers  could  be  completed  its 
members  would  be  free  to  return  to  their  axes  and 
plows. 

"Here's  the  whole  business,"  said  Sheriff  Burke  to 
the  grand  juryman  assigned  to  the  investigation  of  his 
office,  and  he  produced  a  long  narrow  book  resembling 
a  butcher's  blotter.  "I  guess  you'll  find  it  O.  K.  I  put 
down  everything  I  remember  just  as  soon  as  I  think 
of  it." 

The  investigator  stared  at  the  parallel  columns  of 
figures  that  staggered  drunkenly  down  page  after  page 
under  the  headings  "In"  and  "Out,"  without  ever  find- 
ing a  footing,  and  scratched  his  head  dubiously. 

"This  double  entry  bookkeeping  is  about  the  tough- 
est job  I've  got,"  added  the  Sheriff. 

"Well,  I  ain't  much  of  a  bookkeeper,  either,"  con- 
fessed the  grand  juryman,  "so  I  guess  you'd  better  go 
over  'em  with  me  and  kind  o'  help  out — if  you  don't 
mind."  Sheriff  Burke  sighed  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
"Course,  it's  all  a  lot  o'  durned  foolishness — this  goin' 
over  books  and  accounts,"  apologized  the  conscientious 

(51) 


52  LONG  SWEETENING 

investigator.  "Kind  o'  looks  as  if  we  thought  every- 
thing wasn't  exactly  straight.  But  it's  our  sworn  duty, 
an'  it's  got  to  be  did." 

"All  right,  Bill,"  grunted  the  Sheriff.  -"But  it's  five 
o'clock  now,  and  it's  going  to  be  some  job.  Suppose 
you  come  have  supper  with  me,  and  we'll  do  it  later." 

He  would  gladly  have  boarded  the  grand  juryman 
for  the  remainder  of  the  year,  if  it  would  have  ab- 
solved him  from  the  appalling  task  before  him. 

"All  right,  Tom.  Any  time  tonight,"  consented  the 
investigator.  "We  want  to  report  tomorrow,  so's  we 
kin  git  away." 

At  seven  o'clock  they  returned  to  the  office,  lighted 
their  pipes,  threw  off  their  coats  and  attacked  the  for- 
midable columns  of  figures  on  the  first  page,  with  the 
same  calm  but  desperate  heroism  with  which  they 
would  have  faced  a  band  of  hostile  Indians. 

"What's  this,  Tom — a  three  or  a  five  ?"  inquired  the 
grand  juryman. 

"There!  You've  knocked  the  whole  thing  plumb 
out  of  my  head,"  grumbled  the  Sheriff,  "and  I'll  have 
to  start  all  over  again.  Those  that  just  wiggle  are 
three's  and  those  that  wiggle  first  and  then  crawl  are 
five's."    He  started  again  at  the  top  of  the  column. 

When  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  page  they 
compared  results.    Their  totals  differed  widely. 

"I  reckon  we'll  have  to  try  'er  again,"  said  the  grand 
juryman  firmly  but  resignedly. 

Again  and  again  they  added  them,  never  agreeing 
and  neither  ever  reaching  the  same  result  twice. 


LONG  SWEETENING  53 

"I'll  tell  you  what  let's  do,"  suggested  the  investi- 
gator. "You  make  a  general  average  of  your  figures, 
an*  I'll  make  a  general  average  of  mine,  an*  we'll  split 
the  difference." 

"That's  fair,"  agreed  the  Sheriff. 

By  nine  o'clock  a  compromise  had  been  effected  on 
the  first  three  pages,  and  they  adjourned  for  a  drink. 
By  twelve  they  had  disposed  of  five  more.  They 
paused  for  another  drink,  rested  and  spun  yarns  till 
one  and  labored  again  till  two,  when  both,  in  a  state 
of  mental  exhaustion,  sat  staring  at  the  sixty  pages 
remaining. 

"I  don't  s'pose  the  fool  law  requires  us  to  look  at 
every  blame'  figure,"  growled  the  grand  juryman,  "an' 
if  we  can  skip  a  few  figures,  I  reckon  we  can  stretch  it 
a  p'int  an'  skip  a  few  pages." 

"I  suppose  so,"  consented  the  Sheriff,  ready  to  agree 
to  anything  that  would  lighten  their  labors.  "If  I  was 
crooked,  I  guess  somebody  would  have  found  it  out 
before  this." 

"That's  right,  Tom,"  coincided  the  grand  juryman 
heartily.  "Everything's  as  straight  as  a  string  as  far 
as  I've  got,  an'  I'm  satisfied  with  my  investigation  if 
you  are." 

The  Sheriff  was  more  than  satisfied,  so  together 
they  prepared  the  report  to  be  made  to  the  grand  jury. 
It  read: 

"I  have  made  a  thorough  and  complete  investigation 
of  the  books  and  accounts  of  the  Sheriff's  office,  with 
all  its  ins  and  outs,  and  find  everything  O.  K. 

Wm.  Hopper." 


54  LONG  SWEETENING 

When  Sheriff  Burke  tumbled  into  bed  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  he  confessed  to  himself  that  he 
was  ' 'plumb  tuckered  out,"  but  sleep  brought  him  little 
rest.  An  army  of  unemployed  figures,  headed  by  a 
big,  blatant  and  rebellious  nine,  filed  down  the  main 
street  of  the  village  in  double  columns,  halted  in  front 
of  the  court  house,  broke  ranks  and  began  rioting. 
The  townspeople  called  upon  the  Sheriff  to  do  his  duty, 
and  he  responded  promptly,  but  as  fast  as  the  rioters 
were  arrested  and  incarcerated  they  would  slip  between 
the  bars  of  their  cells,  scramble  out  the  jail  windows, 
reform  their  lines,  parade  and  riot  again.  After  a 
desperate  battle  with  a  lot  of  fives  disguised  as  threes 
and  a  heart-breaking  pursuit,  he  succeeded  in  captur- 
ing the  lawless  nine  and  had  him  safely  in  a  cell  with 
an  Oregon  boot  on  his  tail,  when  a  mob  of  grand  jury- 
men, bent  upon  lynching  the  prisoner,  began  hammer- 
ing at  the  jail  door. 

Sheriff  Burke  sprang  to  his  feet,  ready  to  defend  his 
prisoner  at  all  hazards,  and  saw  the  wall  opposite 
burst  into  flame.  He  seized  the  pitcher  of  water  at 
the  head  of  his  bed  and  was  about  to  dash  it  upon  the 
blaze,  when  he  discovered  that  it  was  not  fire,  but 
merely  the  morning  sun  striking  upon  his  red  wall- 
paper— and  someone  was  knocking  at  his  cottage  door. 
He  hastened  to  open  it  and  found  Wade  Carson  stand- 
ing upon  the  veranda.  The  boy  was  leaning  wearily 
upon  his  rifle,  and  a  pack  of  skins  lay  at  his  feet. 

"Hello!  Where  did  you  come  from?"  asked  the 
Sheriff  in  surprise. 


LONG  SWEETENING  55 

"Fum  the  lake." 

"When  did  you  leave  there  ?" 

"  'Bout  midnight." 

"Come  in."  The  Sheriff  noted  the  drawn  and  hag- 
gard appearance  of  the  boy's  face.  "Anything  gone 
wrong?"  he  asked. 

"Yeah." 

"What?" 

"Ever'thing." 

Burke  eyed  him  sharply.  "You  haven't  gone  and 
shot  up  anybody,  have  you?" 

"No;  but  I  come  mighty  nigh  it." 

The  Sheriff  was  familiar  with  the  code  of  ethics 
that  prevailed  in  the  mountains  and  in  thorough  accord 
with  it.  To  draw  and  not  to  shoot  was  cowardly;  to 
shoot  and  miss  was  disgraceful. 

"You  didn't  miss,  did  you?"  he  asked  in  disgust. 

"No;  I  couldn't  of  missed,  if  I  had  pulled  trigger." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  drew  and  didn't 
shoot?" 

"Well — not  ezactly,"  replied  the  boy  apologetically. 
"I  jes  had  'em  kivered,  when  I  'membered  what  you 
said  'bout  shootin',  an'  I  come  to  talk  it  over  with  you 
fust." 

The  Sheriff  shook  his  head  dubiously,  but  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief.  The  boy  had  meant  well  but  had  for- 
gotten himself,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  followed  his 
guardian's  advice  was  a  mitigating  circumstance. 

"Light  the  fire  in  the  stove  while  I  get  my  breeches 


56  LONG  SWEETENING 

on,  and  then  you  can  tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said. 
"There's  matches  alongside  it." 

The  boy  set  the  gun  in  a  corner  and  went  into  the 
kitchen.  When  the  Sheriff  came  out  hitching  up  his 
suspenders,  Wade  was  on  his  hands  and  knees  peering 
under  the  stove  and  into  the  oven.  He  looked  up  and 
grinned  sheepishly. 

"How  do  you  touch  'er  off,  anyway?"  he  asked. 

"Ain't  used  to  stoves,  eh?"  laughed  Burke. 

"I  never  seen  one  like  this'n  afore." 

The  Sheriff  lighted  the  fire  that  had  been  laid,  soused 
his  face  at  the  kitchen  sink  and  scrubbed  his  weather- 
beaten  visage  with  a  rough  roller  towel. 

"Now  set  down  and  tell  me  what  happened,  while 
I  get  breakfast,"  he  suggested. 

"Well,  hit's  thisaway:  a  feller  named  Arnold  fum 
the  city  'at  got  lost  up  thar  last  Fall  till  I  found  'im, 
come  up  yistiddy  with  another  feller,  what  says  he's 
a  Constable,  an'  tuck  possession  o'  my  prope'ty,  sayin' 
he's  bought  it.  I  know  I  ain't  sold  it,  an'  I  ordered 
'em  off  at  the  p'int  of  a  gun;  an'  the  Constable  says 
the  public  minister  sold  it  to  Arnold.  What  I  want 
to  know  fust  off  is  if  he  did,  an'  secon'  place,  what 
right  he's  got  a-doin'  of  it?" 

Sheriff  Burke  pondered.  As  the  boy's  guardian  he 
had  received  notice  6i  the  Public  Administrator's  peti- 
tion to  the  court  for  leave  to  sell  and  had  protested 
against  it,  urging  that  it  be  mortgaged  instead,  but 
the  official  would  not  consent.  When  the  matter  had 
come  up  for  hearing  he  had  offered  to  advance  the 


LONG  SWEETENING  57 

money  necessary  to  meet  the  expenses  of  administra- 
tion, but  the  court  had  decided  that  the  best  interests 
of  the  estate  and  of  the  minor  would  be  subserved  by 
a  sale.     So  it  had  been  sold  to  the  highest  bidder. 

The  Sheriff  explained  the  whole  proceeding  as 
clearly  as  he  could,  Wade  listening  attentively  with 
pale  face,  compressed  lips  and  glittering  eyes. 

"Is  there  any  way  to  git  it  back?"  he  asked,  when 
his  guardian  had  concluded. 

"I  don't  see  any  way,  except  to  buy  it  back  some 
day — and  I  suppose  that  fellow  Arnold  won't  sell. 
Come  have  some  breakfast." 

"I  don't  feel  like  eatin',"  replied  Wade. 

"Better  have  a  cup  of  coffee  or  something,"  and 
seeing  the  utter  hopelessness  written  on  the  boy's  face, 
added:  "After  breakfast  we'll  go  up  town  and  see  a 
lawyer.     Maybe  he  can  find  a  way  to  bust  that  sale." 

The  boy  choked  down  a  cup  of  coffee  in  silence  and 
accompanied  the  Sheriff  to  his  office. 

"You  wait  here,  and  I'll  see  the  District  Attorney 
about  it."  In  an  hour  he  returned.  "It's  all  regular," 
he  said.  "The  District  Attorney  went  over  all  the  pa- 
pers, and  there's  nothing  that  can  be  done  about  it." 

Wade  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor  a  full 
minute.  "Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  a-goin',"  he  said,  very 
quietly. 

"Where  to  ?"  asked  the  Sheriff,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing the  boy's  face. 

"I  dunno  jes  yet." 


58  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Wait  around  awhile — till  court's  over.  I  want  to 
see  you.    You  ain't  in  any  hurry,  are  you?" 

"No-o;  I  reckon  not." 

When  court  convened  Wade  went  to  the  Sheriff's 
cottage,  got  his  pelts  and  rifle,  sold  the  skins,  bought 
some  powder  and  lead  and  was  kneeling  before  the  fire- 
place moulding  bullets  when  the  Sheriff  returned  to 
his  office. 

"What  you  doing,  son?"  inquired  his  guardian. 

"Mouldin'  bullets." 

"What  for?" 

"My  rifle." 

"Where's  your  repeater?" 

"I  left  it  fur  that  feller  Arnold.  I  don't  want 
nuthin'  fum  him." 

"What  you  figuring  on  doing  now?" 

"I  reckon  I'll  go  back  to  the  mountains.  I  hid  all  my 
traps  an'  things  'fore  I  come  away  las'  night." 

"Look  a  here,  son,"  admonished  the  Sheriff  gravely. 
"Don't  go  and  do  anything  you'll  be  sorry  for — like 
going  back  there  and  laying  for  that  fellow  Arnold. 
If  you  kill  him,  you'll  hang,  as  sure  as  God  made 
little  apples!" 

The  boy  did  not  even  glance  up,  but  went  on  with 
his  work.  The  Sheriff  turned  to  his  desk  and  busied 
himself  with  the  affairs  of  his  office,  occasionally 
throwing  a  searching  glance  at  the  grotesque  little  fig- 
ure crouching  on  the  hearth.  Finally  he  pigeon-holed 
his  papers,  put  on  his  hat  and  touched  the  lad  on  the 
shoulder. 


LONG  SWEETENING  59 

"Come  on,  son.     Let's  get  something  to  eat." 

"I  ain't  hungry,"  declared  Wade. 

"Better  have  a  bite  anyway.  Come  on.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

"Kain't  you  talk  right  hyur  jes  as  well  ?" 

"All  right,  son."  He  threw  off  his  hat,  filled  his 
pipe  and  sat  down.  "Come  set  down  here  and  listen  to 
me."  The  boy  took  the  chair  beside  him.  "I'm  your 
guardian,  and  more  than  that,  I'm  your  friend.  You 
believe  that,  don't  you?"  Wade  nodded.  "Well,  I'm 
a  whole  lot  older  and  know  a  whole  lot  more  than  you 
do.  I  know  just  how  you  feel  about  this  thing,  and  if 
it  wasn't  against  the  law  I'd  go  up  there  and  take  a 
pop  at  that  fellow  Arnold  myself.  But  it  ain't  any 
use  to  think  about  it,  because  nobody  can  buck  the  law 
and  get  away  with  it." 

"Is  it  ag'in  the  law  to  kill  a  man  'at  robs  you?"  de- 
manded the  boy  bitterly. 

"No-o;  I  reckon  not.  But  according  to  the  law  he 
hasn't  robbed  you.  It  was  a  mighty  low  down  trick, 
but  it  was  all  legal." 

"Then  how'm  I  goin'  to  get  even,  if  I  don't  kill  'im? 
I  don't  keer  if  I  hang  fur  it !"  he  declared. 

"There's  only  one  way  to  get  even,  son,  and  that's 
according  to  law.  He's  a  rich  man  now,  and  you're 
a  poor  boy,  but  you  take  my  advice,  and  you  won't 
always  be  poor.  You  stay  here  with  me,  and  go  to 
school,  and  get  an  education.  There'll  be  money 
enough  to  put  you  through  school  and  leave  you  a 
starter,  and  then  you  can  go  out  into  a  man's  world 


60  LONG  SWEETENING 

and  fight  him  the  way  men  fight  nowadays — fair  and 
square — and  lick  him,  too.  It's  in  you,  son,  if  you'll 
just  listen  to  me." 

The  boy  reflected  long  and  deeply  upon  his  guar- 
dian's advice,  recalling  his  father's  admonition  to  fight 
"fa'r  and  squar\" 

"How  long'll  it  take?"  he  asked. 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  how  long  it  takes. 
You  know  that  waiting  is  always  good  hunting.  What 
good  would  it  do  you  to  go  up  there  and  plug  him? 
He  wouldn't  even  know  what  hurt  him,  and  you'd  lay 
on  the  floor  in  there  in  one  of  those  cells,  counting  the 
days  till  you  had  to  walk  up  the  steps  onto  the  gal- 
lows. Wait  and  make  it  slow  for  him.  That  will 
hurt  him  worse  and  do  you  more  good." 

The  boy's  eyes  glittered  malignantly,  and  he  showed 
his  long  white  teeth  in  a  grim  smile. 

"I'll  help  you,  too,  son — if  it  takes  the  rest  of  my 
life,"  the  Sheriff  promised.  "You  come  live  with  me. 
I'm  an  old  batch,  and  haven't  anybody  to  look  after, 
and  we'll  figure  it  out  together." 

"If  it's  goin'  to  hurt  'im  worse,  I'll  wait,  an'  I  don't 
keer  how  long,"  declared  the  boy. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  Sheriff  with  an  approving 
nod.  "I  guess  there's  a  little  Indian  blood  in  you, 
son." 

Wade  flushed  and  hung  his  head.  He  knew  in  that 
community  where  the  lazy  California  Digger  was  con- 
temptuously referred  to  as  an  "Injun,"  where  the 
shiftless  white  trash  who  consorted  with  them  were 


LONG  SWEETENING  61 

known  as  "squaw  men,"  Indian  blood  was  regarded 
as  a  bar  sinister;  and  his  father  had  told  him  that 
there  was  Indian  blood  in  the  Carsons.  Burke  ob- 
served the  boy's  confusion  and  divined  the  cause.  Im- 
pulsively he  threw  his  arms  around  Wade's  shoulders 
and  drew  him  closer. 

"Son,"  he  said  softly  and  tenderly,  "I  didn't  say 
'Injun.'  I  said  'Indian' — and  there's  a  heap  of  dif- 
ference. That's  the  reason  you're  going  to  wait  and 
make  a  man  of  yourself — and  fight  a  white  man's 
fight." 

The  boy  hid  his  face  in  the  folds  of  his  guardian's 
coat  to  conceal  the  tears  that  welled  to  his  eyes  and 
registered  a  solemn  vow  to  wait  and  to  fight  a  white 
man's  fight — but  fight  to  the  end. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"The  jury  is  coming  in!" 

The  bailiff  locked  the  door  behind  him  and  hurried 
toward  the  Judge's  chambers.  The  judicial  drama, 
which,  with  constant  clash  and  conflict,  had  been  un- 
folding itself  for  months,  was  approaching  its  culmina- 
tion. Within  the  railing  that  separated  the  actors 
from  their  audience  a  full  dozen  of  the  most  eminent 
attorneys  of  the  California  bar  dropped  their  friendly 
banter  and  slipped  into  their  accustomed  seats.  As 
the  announcement  was  passed  back,  a  score  of  the  best 
known  staff-writers  of  the  San  Francisco  press  hastily 
rearranged  their  wads  of  copy  paper  and  sat  waiting 
with  pencils  poised.  The  babel  of  inconsequential  con- 
versation in  the  packed  courtroom  was  succeeded  by 
the  shuffling  of  feet,  as  the  crowd  readjusted  itself  to 
hard  benches,  highly  prized  and  patiently  retained 
through  long  intermissions. 

"The  jury  is  coming  in!"  shouted  someone  at  the 
entrance. 

Cigars  and  cigarettes  were  hastily  discarded,  and 
the  mob  in  the  corridors  without  began  to  pour 
through  the  doors  and  pack  itself  into  every  inch  of 
unoccupied  space.  The  buzz  of  inquiry  and  specula- 
tion, as  to  whether  the  jury  had  reached  a  verdict  or 
merely  sought  further  instruction,  was  silenced  by  the 
bailiff's  raps  and  demands  for  "order  in  court,"  as  the 

(62) 


LONG  SWEETENING  63 

Judg$  took  his  place  on  the  bench  and  waited  for  the 
jurors  to  file  into  their  seats. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed  upon  a 
verdict?" 

The  dignified  merchant,  who,  because  of  his  years, 
experience  and  prominence,  had  been  selected  as  fore- 
man, rose  deliberately.  For  the  first  time  he  found  him- 
self occupying  the  center  of  the  stage,  the  spokesman 
of  "twelve  good  men  and  true,"  chosen  to  deliver  the 
last  word.  He  felt  every  eye  in  that  great  throng 
attendant  on  his  slightest  movement,  every  ear  primed 
to  catch  his  faintest  utterance.  With  a  full  sense  of 
the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  and  the  importance  of  his 
role,  and  with  true  dramatic  instinct,  he  held  his  audi- 
ence breathless,  while  he  fumbled  at  the  inside  pocket 
of  his  coat  for  a  slip  of  paper,  slowly  unfolded  it, 
cleared  his  throat  and  responded: 

"We— have!" 

A  murmur,  quickly  suppressed,  ran  through  the 
courtroom,  and  for  an  instant  every  eye  rested  on  emi- 
nent counsel,  who,  with  nods  and  smiles,  sought  to 
impress  all  with  their  confidence  and  satisfaction,  then 
shifted  to  the  young  man  sitting  apart  from  them, 
motionless  and  apparently  unconcerned. 

"Read  it,  please!"  ordered  the  Judge. 

Again  the  shuffling  of  feet,  as  the  assemblage  set 
itself  to  catch  every  word  of  the  momentous  decision. 
The  foreman  fumbled  for  his  handkerchief,  polished 
his  pinc-nez  deliberately  and  adjusted  them  with  the 
utmost  precision  and  care. 


64  LONG  SWEETENING 

"We,  the  jury,"  he  read,  "find  {hat  the  will  bearing 
date  of  June  23,  1901,  purporting  to  have  been  made 
and  signed  by  James  M.  Coleman,  deceased,  is  a 
forgery,  and  that  said  will  was  neither  dated,  written 
nor  signed  by  the  said  James  M.  Coleman,  deceased. 
We  further  find  that  the  contestant,  Mary  J.  Coleman, 
was  the  lawful  wife  of  the  said  James  M.  Coleman, 
deceased." 

The  bailiff,  standing  with  gavel  poised  ready  to  sup- 
press the  expected  demonstration,  let  it  fall  thunder- 
ously in  the  midst  of  a  silence  that  was  oppressive; 
and  before  the  amazed  assemblage  could  get  its  breath 
the  Judge  had  discharged  the  jury  and  adjourned  the 
session. 

Thus  ended  a  cause  celebre  in  which,  as  one  of  the 
staff-writers  expressed  it,  "a  young  man  without 
experience,  defending  a  client  without  a  dollar  in  a 
cause  without  a  chance,"  had  battled  for  months  alone 
and  unaided  against  the  brains  of  the  California  bar, 
and  had  won  a  victory  without  parallel  in  the  legal 
annals  of  the  state. 

While  eminent  counsel  sought,  with  confident  predic- 
tions of  a  reversal  on  appeal,  to  reassure  a  hysterical 
client — the  bejeweled  mistress  of  a  dead  millionaire — 
the  reporters  crowded  about  the  young  attorney,  who 
was  trying  to  make  a  simple,  faded  woman  of  middle 
age  understand  that  the  battle  for  her  respectable 
widowhood,  which  to  her  meant  everything,  and  for 
the  millions  of  her  late  husband,  which  meant  nothing 
at  all,  had  been  won. 


LONG  SWEETENING  65 

"Have  you  any  statement  to  make,  Mr.  Carson?" 
one  of  them  asked. 

"The  verdict  speaks  for  itself,"  he  replied. 

Wade  Carson  was  not  popular  with  the  press. 
When,  despite  the  violent  expostulations  of  his  asso- 
ciates, he  had  emerged  from  the  obscurity  of  a  junior 
partnership  to  assert  an  incredible  claim  on  behalf  of 
an  impossible  client,  eminent  counsel,  fortified  behind 
a  will  already  admitted  to  probate,  vehemently  de- 
nounced him  as  a  pettifogging  ambulance-chaser  and 
his  client  as  a  brazen  and  bedraggled  adventuress.  To 
the  press,  begging  for  a  statement,  he  had  replied 
curtly : 

"This  case  will  be  tried  in  the  courts — not  in  the 
newspapers." 

In  a  frantic  search  for  some  information  concern- 
ing him  and  his  antecedents  the  newspapers  had  trailed 
him  back  through  a  clerkship  with  the  legal  firm  in 
which  he  was  now  a  junior  partner,  through  the  Hast- 
ings College  of  Law,  the  University  of  California  and 
a  small  preparatory  school,  but  no  farther.  Every- 
where he  had  earned  the  reputation  of  being  an  unso- 
ciable and  incorrigible  "dig,"  and  had  retained  the 
sobriquet  bestowed  in  the  "prep"  school — "The  Trog- 
lodyte." Nowhere  had  he  given  any  confidences, 
asked  any  favors  or  made  any  friends.  Investigation 
into  his  private  life  in  the  metropolis  was  no  more 
fruitful.  Apparently  he  had  restricted  his  association 
with  men  and  women  alike  purely  to  matters  of  busi- 
ness, without  wasting  a  moment,  a  word  or  a  cent. 


66  LONG  SWEETENING 

In  the  early  stages  of  the  case  Carson  and  his  cause 
were  ridiculed  and  derided,  he  and  his;  client  were 
libeled  and  caricatured,  till  the  general  public  was  in- 
clined to  share  the  opinion  expressed  by  eminent  coun- 
sel. The  masterly  presentation  of  his  case,  however, 
forced  eminent  counsel  to  summon  the  assistance  of 
more  eminent  counsel,  and  his  brilliant  attack  upon  a 
defense  deemed  impregnable  compelled  the  respect  and 
admiration  of  the  bar,  the  press  and  the  public.  From 
the  beginning  of  the  trial  every  time-worn  trick,  every 
new  artifice  that  legal  ingenuity  could  devise,  to  preju- 
dice the  jury  and  cloud  or  confuse  the  issues  of  law 
and  fact  was  unerringly  exposed  or  avoided;  and  his 
adversaries,  first  surprised  and  then  astonished  by  the 
clarity  of  a  vision  that  seemed  to  have  anticipated 
every  possible  contingency  and  emergency  in  a  case 
involving  such  a  mass  of  conflicting  testimony  and 
such  a  tangle  of  technical  law,  were  amazed  to  find 
that  one  man,  after  the  prodigious  task  of  preparation, 
still  had  the  mental  and  physical  strength  for  the  colos- 
sal labor  of  the  trial. 

"How  did  he  do  it?"  gasped  one  of  eminent 
counsel. 

"By  a  singleness  of  purpose  that  is  indivisible — 
inexorable — irresistible,"  declared  the  Nestor  of  the 
bar.  "When  that  young  man  starts,  God  have  mercy 
on  anything  or  anybody  that  stands  in  his  way!" 

Before  Carson  could  reach  his  office  the  daily  papers, 
prepared  long  in  advance  for  any  sort  of  a  verdict,  had 
extras  on  the  street  announcing  that  the  Coleman  will 


LONG  SWEETENING  67 

was  a  forgery.  He  let  himself  in  by  the  private  en- 
trance, threw  off  his  hat  and  stood  for  a  moment 
gazing  intently  over  the  tops  of  intervening  buildings 
at  the  imposing  structure  in  the.  distance,  bearing  on 
an  otherwise  blank  wall  the  sign,  "San  Francisco  Bank- 
ing &  Trust  Co."  Lately  he  had  heard  vague  but  per- 
sistent rumors  that  the  institution  had  departed  from 
conservative  banking  methods  to  engage  in  speculation, 
and  that  it  was  regarded  in  the  financial  district  with 
suspicion  and  distrust.  Though  of  vital  interest  to 
him,  he  left  the  rumors  to  private  investigators  and 
resolutely  put  every  thought  of  the  matter  out  of  his 
mind  until  he  could  finish  the  work  in  hand.  Now  he 
turned  to  a  cabinet,  drew  out  a  file  box  marked  "J.  A.," 
swept  the  litter  from  his  desk,  lighted  a  cigar  and 
emptied  the  box  of  its  contents.  He  was  familiar 
with  every  scrap  of  information  collected  from  every 
possible  source,  but,  nevertheless,  he  proceeded  to  re- 
view the  voluminous  data,  carefully  arranged  and 
indexed,  concerning  the  career  of  John  Arnold. 

Of  humble  origin  and  with  a  meager  education  Ar- 
nold had  started  in  the  bank  as  a  petty  clerk,  had  risen 
rapidly  to  the  position  of  cashier,  and,  upon  a  reorgan- 
ization of  the  institution,  had  subscribed  for  such  a 
large  block  of  stock  that  he  was  made  vice-president 
and  general  manager.  Under  his  control  it  had  be- 
come one  of  the  most  popular  banking  houses  in  the 
metropolis,  and  he  had  succeeded  to  the  presidency. 
Carson  was  not  alone  in  surmising  that  such  success 
could  have  been  achieved  only  through  the  violation  of 


68  LONG  SWEETENING 

confidences  and  the  misuse  of  funds,  and  the  financial 
world,  waiting  confidently  for  Arnold's  fall,  was 
startled  by  the  announcement  of  an  achievement  that 
dwarfed  everything  since  the  construction  of  the  first 
trans-continental  railroad. 

With  nothing  but  the  worthless  bonds  of  a  moribund 
narrow-gauge  line,  twelve  miles  long,  which  had  been 
owned  and  operated  in  connection  with  a  coal  mine, 
Arnold  had  organized  a  new  corporation,  had  acquired 
terminals  and  rights  of  way  and  had  made  all  the 
financial  arrangements  to  construct,  equip  and  operate 
a  broad-gauge  road  across  the  states  of  California  and 
Nevada,  to  connect  with  and  form  an  important  part 
of  a  great  transcontinental   system. 

Arnold's  financial  prestige  and  position  appeared  im- 
pregnable, but  he  stood  alone,  for  his  associates  were 
mining  men,  who  knew  nothing  of  banking  methods 
and  yielded  him  undisputed  control.  Carson,  who 
understood  the  perils  of  high  finance,  was  convinced 
that  the  rumors  of  weakness  were  well  founded  and 
felt  assured  that  Arnold,  if  menaced,  would  go  to  any 
length  to  maintain  himself.  All  that  was  necessary 
to  send  the  whole  colossal  structure  toppling  was  to 
find  one  vulnerable  spot  and  strike  one  telling  blow. 

Carson  was  pondering  the  problem,  when  the  fingers 
of  his  left  hand  suddenly  grew  numb  and  nerveless, 
his  cigar  fell  upon  the  desk  and  he  found  himself 
utterly  unable  to  pick  it  up.  Pierce,  the  senior  member 
of  the  firm,  entered  to  congratulate  him  upon  his  vic- 
tory and  saw  his  handsome  face  drawn,  haggard  and 


LONG  SWEETENING  69 

copper-hued,  his  eyes,  ordinarily  so  brilliant  and  pierc- 
ing, lusterless,  sunken  and  fixed  in  a  vacant  stare. 

"My  God,  Carson!  What's  the  matter?"  gasped 
Pierce. 

One  side  of  Carson's  face  twisted  into  a  smile  as 
he  endeavored  to  fix  the  identity  of  his  visitor,  and  he 
mumbled  incoherently. 

"You're  ill,  man!  Come — lie  down,  till  I  can  call 
a  physician." 

He  took  Carson's  arm  and  assisted  him  to  his  feet, 
but  at  the  first  step  toward  the  couch  he  collapsed  and 
would  have  fallen  had  Pierce  not  supported  him. 

"I'm  paralyzed — left — side,"  he  muttered  thickly. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Carson,  acutely  conscious  of  his  untimely  affliction 
and  utter  helplessness,  but  unable  to  offer  a  protest, 
was  whisked  away  to  a  sanitarium,  bundled  into  a  cot, 
given  sedatives  and  left  in  charge  of  nurses  and  physi- 
cians. The  next  morning  he  felt  rested  and  refreshed, 
the  paralysis  had  disappeared,  and  he  insisted  upon 
returning  to  his  office. 

"I've  got  to  get  back  to  work,"  he  declared. 

"No  you  don't  I"  snapped  his  physician. 

"I'm  all  right.,, 

"No  you're  not." 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?" 

"Nothing  serious — yet.  Just  a  slight  cerebral  em- 
bolism due  to  overwork.  You  feel  all  right  to-day,  but 
to-morrow  you'd  collapse  again.  You  must  take  a 
good  long  rest." 

The  thought  of  remaining  inactive,  even  for  an 
hour,  when  there  was  so  much  to  be  done,  was  mad- 
dening, and  Carson  fretted,  fumed  and  protested. 

"Will  a  week  in  this  confounded  pest-house  be 
enough  ?"  he  growled. 

"No;  you  can't  get  the  kind  of  rest  you  need  in  a 
sanitarium — or  anywhere  else — in  a  week.  You've 
got  to  go  away  where  you  can't  see  or  hear  anything  to 
bother  about." 

"I  can't  do  it.  I  won't — that's  all,"  declared  Car- 
son, and  his  jaws  closed  with  a  snap. 

(70) 


LONG  SWEETENING  71 

"All  right.    Go  to  your  office  and — commit  suicide." 

Carson  pondered  a  moment.  "How  long  will  it 
take?"  he  asked. 

"You  might  last  three  months,  if  you  were  kept  in 
a  strait  jacket  and  strapped  down." 

"I  mean — to  get  the  required  rest." 

"That  depends  on  the  way  you  take  it.  Three 
months'  travel  abroad  might  do  it,  but  one  month  of 
roughing  it  in  the  mountains  would  be  better." 

Carson  frowned  at  the  suggestion.  "I  don't  know 
where  to  go,"  he  grumbled. 

"Go  anywhere.     California  is  full  of  mountains." 

"There's  only  one  place  in  the  world  to  which  I 
would  care  to  go.  Any  other  would  only  make  mat- 
ters worse." 

"Then  go  there." 

"I  can't." 

"Well,  it's  up  to  you." 

Reclining  in  a  chair  on  the  hospital  veranda  Carson 
pondered  all  the  physician  had  said.  He  questioned 
neither  the  accuracy  of  the  diagnosis  nor  the  wisdom 
of  the  advice,  but  he  could  reconcile  himself  to  neither 
of  the  alternatives.  There  was  work  to  be  done — a 
man's  work  that  had  been  waiting  on  his  manhood — 
and  not  another  moment  should  be  wasted. 

Mr.  Pierce  to  see  you,  sir,"  announced  the  nurse. 

"Show  him  up!" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  welcomed  an  inter- 
ruption— anything  to  dispel  his  confused  reflections. 
Pierce  was  the  bearer  of  a  suggestion  that  eminent 


J2  LONG  SWEETENING 

counsel  in  the  Coleman  case  would  consider  a  com- 
promise. 

"I  anticipated  it,"  said  Carson. 

Deaf  to  all  pleas  and  protests  he  dressed,  left  the 
hospital  and  arranged  for  a  conference  with  his 
adversaries. 

"We  will  allow  you  enough  to  cover  fees,  costs  and 
a  competence  for  the  claimant,"  he  told  them.  "That 
is  positively  final." 

That  would  leave  his  client  a  couple  of  millions, 
would  yield  him  a  contingent  fee  of  half  a  million  and 
would  end  litigation  that  might  be  continued  for 
months  or  even  years;  and  with  his  usual  clarity  of 
vision  he  was  confident  the  offer  would  be  accepted. 
Within  a  week  an  agreement  had  been  reached  and  the 
settlements  made — and  Carson  was  back  in  the  hospi- 
tal dazed  and  bewildered,  utterly  unable  to  compre- 
hend how  such  abundant  strength  and  vitality  could 
suffer  such  a  complete  collapse.  Gradually  the  solemn 
and  repeated  warnings  of  his  physician  convinced  him 
that  only  absolute  rest  and  relaxation  would  restore 
him ;  and  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  Arnold 
might  be  in  such  financial  straits  that  he  would  be  will- 
ing to  part  with  the  lake  property.  He  knew  it  had 
advanced  ten- fold  in  value,  but  no  price  was  too  great, 
if  it  meant  rejuvenation  and  fulfilment  of  his  designs. 
His  only  fear  was  that  Arnold  might  fall  of  his  own 
weight,  or  that  some  other  hand  might  rob  him  of  his 
revenge.    Still,  he  would  have  to  chance  it.    He  had 


LONG  SWEETENING 


73 


one  of  his  clerks  summoned,  gave  him  his  instructions 
and  waited  for  the  answer. 

"Arnold  is  in  his  country  place,  but  I  am  assured 
that  he  will  not  sell  at  any  price,"  was  the  reply. 

Carson's  condition  grew  steadily  worse.  His  sleep- 
less nights  were  haunted  by  John  Arnold  in  all  sorts 
of  devilish  guises,  jeering  and  taunting  him,  and  his 
brooding  day-dreams  were  filled  with  visions  of  his  old 
home  beckoning  and  calling.  What  would  he  not  give 
to  be  back  there  for  a  single  day  ?  The  whole  world — 
everything — except  the  revenge  for  which  he  had  lived 
and  for  which  he  was  even  ready  to  die. 

There  was  one  thing  he  still  had  the  strength  to 
accomplish.  He  could  find  John  Arnold,  take  him  by 
his  fat  throat  and  choke  the  life  out  of  him.  He  de- 
manded his  clothing,  threatened  to  walk  out  of  the 
hospital  in  a  blanket  and  raged  until  attendants  were 
compelled  to  restrain  him  by  force.  His  physician 
was  hastily  summoned.  He  found  his  patient  very  still 
and  pale,  his  purple  lips  compressed  and  his  cavernous 
eyes  burning  feverishly.  He  glanced  at  the  chart  and 
shook  his  head. 

"Look  here,  Carson,"  he  said,  gravely.  "Don't  you 
know  that  you  are  a  dying  man — that  there  is  only  one 
thing  in  the  world  that  will  save  you — absolute  rest 
and  quiet?    You  must  go  away." 

"Yes;  I  know  it,"  replied  Carson. 

"Well — what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"I'm  going." 

"When?" 


74  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Now.    Send  me  my  clothes." 

The  physician  scrutinized  him  in  doubt  and  perplex- 
ity. "Better  take  a  nurse  with  you — for  a  short  time," 
he  suggested.     "You're  in  no  condition  to  go  alone." 

"All  right.     Whatever  you  say." 

Carson  dressed  and  sent  a  message  to  his  partners : 
"Please  look  after  Mrs.  Coleman's  estate.  I'm  going 
to  the  mountains.  You'll  hear  from  me  later."  He 
called  a  taxicab,  hurried  down  town,  bought  a  light 
camping  outfit,  necessary  clothing  and  supplies,  a  few 
toilet  articles,  a  revolver,  a  rod,  line  and  a  book  of  flies. 
He  drove  to  his  rooms  and  changed  his  clothing,  then 
to  the  ferry  depot,  where  he  dismissed  his  nurse.  In 
an  obscure  corner  of  the  train,  half  concealed  behind 
the  page  of  a  newspaper  and  with  his  cap  drawn  so  low 
over  his  face  that  only  the  scrubby  beard  he  had  grown 
in  the  hospital  showed  beneath  it,  he  sat  buried  in 
reflection,  undisturbed  by  any  fear  of  recognition. 

When  Sheriff  Burke,  merely  to  divert  a  child  from 
a  deadly  and  disastrous  purpose,  urged  him  to  wait 
and  promised  his  aid,  he  fertilized  the  seed  of  ven- 
geance already  planted  in  fertile  soil.  To  this  boy, 
in  whom  the  blood  of  indomitable  pioneers  and  of  their 
traditional  enemies  mingled,  the  feudal  code  of  the 
mountains,  as  well  as  the  tribal  law  of  the  plains— 
never  to  forgive  or  to  forget  an  injury — was  more 
than  a  time-honored  precept  and  unvarying  practice. 
It  was  a  deep-rooted  instinct,  the  inevitable  heritage 


LONG  SWEETENING  75 

of  an  implacable  ancestry — the  very  essence  of  every 
corpuscle  in  his  veins,  red  and  white.  Undisturbed  by 
the  hand  of  occasion  it  would  have  remained  dormant ; 
under  judicious  influence  and  in  a  suitable  environ- 
ment it  could  have  been  weeded  out,  or,  better  still, 
utilized  as  the  root  of  tenacious  and  beneficent  pur- 
pose. But,  after  its  germination,  every  event  and  cir- 
cumstance through  the  formative  period  contributed 
to  the  rankness  of  its  development. 

Habituated  to  solitude  from  infancy  Wade  shrank 
intuitively  from  every  touch  of  social  civilization; 
and  when  he  was  driven  from  the  unrestricted  freedom 
of  the  wilds  his  only  refuge  was  a  terra  incognita 
peopled  by  an  alien  race,  scornful  and  contemptuous. 
Strait- jacketed  in  a  suit  of  "store  clothes"  and  fet- 
tered with  the  first  pair  of  shoes  he  had  ever  worn, 
he  had  faced  the  inquisition  of  enrollment  in  the  vil- 
lage school,  answering  the  principal's  questions  in  the 
uncouth  dialect  of  the  mountains  and  ignoring  the 
giggling  and  nudging  of  the  more  sophisticated  pupils. 
Then  he  had  been  led  away  to  another  class-room  and 
placed  on  a  bench  beside  a  girl  half  his  age,  who 
promptly  broke  into  hysterical  weeping  and  fled  from 
the  room.  Half  an  hour  later  an  indignant  parent 
had  burst  through  the  door,  dragging  her  tear-stained 
offspring  after  her. 

"I  want  it  distinkly  understood,"  she  screamed, 
"that  we-uns  ain't  never  'sociated  with  no  'tar-heels/ 
an*  my  gal  ain't  a-goin'  to  set  in  school,  nor  no- 
wheres  else,  with  no  Injun!" 


76  LONG  SWEETENING 

This  vehement  appeal  to  the  law  of  caste  was  in- 
stantly and  apologetically  sustained,  and  Wade,  with 
the  indelible  brand  of  "Injun"  on  him,  accepted  the 
decree  of  ostracism  as  irrevocable  and  his  consequent 
isolation  as  irremediable.  From  the  morbid  seclusion 
into  which  he  shrank  neither  the  friendly  advances  of 
later  student  life,  nor  the  lure  of  youthful  diversions 
could  ever  entice  him.  Without  resentment,  except 
toward  John  Arnold,  the  prime  factor  in  his  afflicted 
exile,  he  walked  his  way  alone.  And  whenever  he 
wavered  or  faltered  his  foster-father  knew  no  quicker 
or  surer  way  of  stimulating  him  to  renewed  effort 
than  by  twanging  insistently  on  the  single  string  of 
revenge. 

Thus  the  categorical  impulse  developed  into  a  fixed 
idea — an  obsession — and  only  an  insurmountable  ob- 
stacle was  necessary  to  fan  it  into  a  blaze  of  mono- 
mania. To  Carson  it  had  all  been  merely  the  stalking 
of  an  enemy  through  the  wilds  of  society,  and  now 
he  was  ready  for  the  last  grapple. 

It  was  night  when  he  reached  Potterville.  Slipping 
off  the  train  unobserved,  he  walked  rapidly  through 
unfrequented  streets  of  the  village  toward  the  moun- 
tains beyond  and  plunged  into  a  dark  canyon.  Under 
a  thicket  of  laurel  he  rolled  himself  in  his  blankets — 
and  slept. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Williams's  position  as  gamekeeper  and  caretaker  of 
Arnold's  country  place  exactly  suited  his  tempera- 
ment. During  the  inclement  days  of  Winter  he  sat  in 
a  rocking  chair  before  the  fireplace  of  the  old  Carson 
cabin,  puffed  at  his  pipe  and  wondered  if  "it  mightn't 
be  a-goin'  to  clear  up."  When  the  sun  broke  through 
he  walked  as  far  as  the  bench  outside  the  door  and 
wondered  if  "it  mightn't  be  a-goin'  to  rain  ag'in." 
When  driven  to  it  by  the  pangs  of  hunger  he  pre- 
pared coffee,  bacon  and  johnny-cake;  and  occasion- 
ally, when  bacon  revolted  and  weather  invited,  he 
hunted  or  fished  in  the  way  that  involved  the  least 
possible  exertion — by  setting  a  trout  line  in  the  lake 
or  a  wire  snare  on  a  deer  trail,  and  awaiting  results. 

"Thar  ain't  nothin'  to  do  but  to  rest,"  he  once  con- 
fided to  an  acquaintance,  "but  when  that's  all  did,  I'm 
so  plumb  tuckered  out  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

The  arrival  of  the  Arnolds  for  the  Summer  natur- 
ally terminated  Williams's  period  of  hibernation,  but 
added  little  to  his  physical  activities.  Under  the  pre- 
tense of  guarding  against  trespassers  he  was  com- 
pelled to  walk  as  much  as  half  a  mile  to  find  a  shady 
nook  where  he  could  rest  undisturbed,  but  when  he 
subtracted  from  that  the  effort  of  preparing  his  own 
meals  he  was  forced  to  admit,  somewhat  reluctantly, 
that  it  was  about  "a  stand-off."  Arnold,  grown  fat 
and  flabby,  and  Mrs.   Arnold,   always  timorous  and 

(77) 


78  LONG  SWEETENING 

sedentary,  made  few  demands.  Betty,  a  rugged,  fear- 
less and  active  girl  of  nearly  eighteen,  had  long  since 
abandoned  as  hopeless  all  effort  to  overcome  Wil- 
liams's inertia.  In  a  moment  of  exasperation  she  had 
once  told  him  the  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  but  his 
only  response,  offered  with  undisguised  envy  and  ad- 
miration, was: 

"That  feller  shore  had  a  good  sleep." 

As  Williams  was  too  indolent  and  illiterate  to  fabri- 
cate an  expense  account,  Arnold  held  his  honesty  in 
high  regard  and  refused  to  discharge  him;  so  Betty 
accepted  him  as  a  fixture  and  explored  the  estate  with- 
out guidance.  But  the  strain  imposed  upon  the  game- 
keeper's mentality  was  almost  beyond  endurance. 
Added  to  the  perpetual  problem  of  the  weather  was 
the  constant  question,  "how  long  air  they  a-goin'  to 
stay?"  and  all  his  waking  hours  were  spent  in  devis- 
ing means  of  hastening  their  departure.  Years  of 
experience  had  taught  him  that  Arnold's  movements 
were  controlled  by  his  business,  Mrs.  Arnold's  by  her 
fears,  and  Betty's  by  her  caprices.  The  echoes  of  a 
distant  rifle  shot  or  the  report  of  an  unfamiliar  foot- 
print was  sufficient  to  throw  Mrs.  Arnold  into  a  panic 
and  prompt  the  threat  to  return  immediately  to  the 
security  of  her  home  in  the  metropolis. 

The  moment  the  Arnolds  occupied  the  bungalow 
Williams  laid  siege  and  maintained  a  steady  bombard- 
ment, selecting  Mrs.  Arnold  as  his  target.  If  by  acci- 
dent he  discovered  a  man  track  he.  multiplied  and  mag- 
nified it;  if  by  any  chance  he  encountered  a  trespasser 


LONG  SWEETENING  79 

he  immediately  invested  the  stranger  with  mysterious 
and  sinister  motives;  and  in  the  absence  of  anything 
suspicious  or  tangible  he  supplied  the  deficiency  from 
his  almost  arid  imagination.  It  would  have  ended  in 
a  hollow  victory  but  for  Betty.  By  coaxing,  wheedling 
and  scheming  she  was  able  to  start  her  vacations  in 
the  early  Summer;  by  tears,  obstinacy  and  defiance 
she  was  able  to  extend  them  to  the  early  Autumn. 
But  she  always  dreaded  the  moment  when  Williams 
would  triumph,  and  she  would  be  compelled  to  think 
more  of  gowns  than  of  guns,  of  the  depressing  con- 
ventions of  the  metropolis  than  the  unrestricted 
freedom  of  the  mountains. 

Until  his  family  were  installed  at  his  country  place 
for  the  season  Arnold  did  not  tell  them  that  his  in- 
volved affairs  would  demand  his  constant  attention 
during  the  summer.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  despite 
Mrs.  Arnold's  tears  and  protests,  he  was  in  his  automo- 
bile ready  to  return  to  San  Francisco.  Mrs.  Arnold  and 
Betty  were  trying  to  exact  from  him  a  promise  of  a 
speedy  return  for  a  few  days  at  least,  when  Williams 
appeared  running  toward  them.  The  mere  fact  that 
Williams  ran  was  astonishing,  and  they  watched  his 
lumbering  approach  with  open-mouthed  amazement. 

"Mr.  Arnold !"  he  gasped,  waving  his  arms  in  well- 
simulated  excitement. 

"Well— what  is  it?" 

"A  little  while  ago  I  heard  a  shot  in  that  little  gulch 
jest  over  yon,"  declared  Williams,  bringing  it  as  near 
home  as  possible.    "It  ain't  an  inch  over  a  half  a  mile 


80  LONG  SWEETENING 

from  where  yer  standin'  this  minute.  Well,  I  went 
over  thar  an'  found  tracks  that  looked  as  if  they  might 
o'  been  made  by  a  man  seven  foot  high.  I  follered 
'em  an'  foun'  the  feller  a-dressin'  a  deer  he  had  killed. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  me  he  picked  up  his  gun  an'  held 
it  ready  to  shoot  me  in  cold  blood.  I  tol'  him  he  wuz 
on  private  prope'ty,  an'  that  he  was  a-killin'  your 
deer." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Arnold. 

"Why,  he  said  he  didn't  see  any  brand  on  its  hip 
or  any  marks  in  its  ears.  I  tol'  him  to  leave  it  an' 
git  often  the  place,  but  he  said  he  guessed  he'd  keep 
it.  When  I  tol'  him  you'd  prosecute  him  to  the  full 
extent  o'  the  law,  he  said:  'He's  gotta  git  me  fust — 
an'  git  me  afore  I  git  him.'  " 

"Who  was  he — do  you  know  ?" 

"He  looked  like  a  squatter,  but  he  might  be  that 
stage  robber — the  feller  that  holds  up  the  Warm 
Springs  stage  ev'ry  two  or  three  months.  He  wuz 
six  foot  six  if  he  wuz  an  inch,  an'  fifty  year  old  if 
he  wuz  a  day." 

"Do  you  think  it  safe  for  us  to  remain  here — 
alone?"  asked  Mrs.  Arnold. 

"Well,  it  mought  be,  an'  then  ag'in  it  moughtn't. 
Yer  perfeckly  safe  as  long's  I'm  aroun'  the  house,  but, 
o'  course,  I  hafY  to  go  my  rounds — or  the  place  would 
be  swarmin'  with  'em.  When  I  haft  to  leave  yer  hyur 
alone,  I  don't  want  to  be  held  responsible — that's  all." 

"John,  you  must  take  us  with  you.  We  can  be 
ready  in  a  few  minutes." 


LONG  SWEETENING  81 

"It  would  be  cowardly  of  us  to  run  away  and  leave 
poor  Williams  here  alone,"  said  Betty.  "The  man 
with  snaggly  teeth  might  come  and  bite  him." 

"I'll  see  the  Sheriff  at  Potterville  and  order  him  to 
stop  this  annoyance,"  promised  Arnold,  as  he  drove 
away. 

"I'm  surprised,  Williams,"  declared  Betty,  fixing 
him  with  an  accusing  eye,  "that  it  never  occurred  to 
you  to  put  mice  in  the  house." 

"Don't  you  dare  leave  us  tomorrow,  Williams," 
commanded  Mrs.  Arnold. 

"Well,  you  know,  Mrs.  Arnold,  this  time  o'  year, 
when  there's  so  many  hunters  an'  campers  around,  I 
oughta  be  watchin'  things  pretty  clost,  but — o'  course 
— jest  as  you  say,  Mrs.  Arnold,"  he  yielded  with  a 
show  of  reluctance  and  a  pretense  of  resignation. 

"Williams,  you  are  almost  unimaginative  enough  to 
be  a  detective,"  declared  Betty,  when  her  mother  had 
retired  to  the  security  of  the  bungalow.  "That's  the 
ninth  stage  robber  with  snaggly  teeth  and  long 
whiskers  you  have  seen.  I  wish  you'd  find  one  that 
employs  a  dentist  and  a  barber — just  for  a  change." 

"All  I  kin  do  is  to  tell  what  I  see  an'  take  things 
as  they  come,  Miss  Arnold,"  protested  Williams. 

Sheriff  Burke  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  his 
feet  on  his  desk  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  when 
Arnold  bustled  into  his  office. 

"I  want  to  see  the  Sheriff,"  he  said  pompously, 
though  he  knew  Burke  well  by  sight. 


82  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Well,  I  guess  there's  no  objection  to  your  taking 
a  look,"  replied  the  official. 

"Are  you  Sheriff  Burke?" 

"Yes." 

"My  name  is  Arnold — John  Arnold." 

"Yeah?"  The  Sheriff  neither  rose  nor  asked  his 
visitor  to  take  a  seat. 

"I  just  wanted  to  see  you  about  a  little  trouble  that 
I'm  having  out  at  my  place." 

"Yeah?" 

"I  have  trespass  notices  posted  everywhere,  but  peo- 
ple keep  coming  in  on  my  property  and  killing  my 
game." 

"Yeah?" 

"I've  stood  it  as  long  as  I  can,  and  now  I'm  going 
to  put  a  stop  to  it." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yes;  I  want  you  to  appoint  John  Williams  a 
deputy  sheriff." 

"Yeah?    Who's  John  Williams?" 

"He's  my  gamekeeper." 

"I  don't  know  him,  and  I  don't  need  any  more 
deputies,"   said   Sheriff  Burke. 

"I  am  not  asking  that  you  take  him  into  your  of- 
fice, but  I  want  the  appointment  for  him,  so  that  he 
will  have  authority  to  arrest  trespassers  without  a 
warrant." 

"Yeah?  What  are  these  trespassers — hide  hunters?" 

"No;  not  that  I  know  of." 

"Just  kill  a  little  game  occasionally  to  eat,  eh?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  83 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  they  come  on  my  preserve 
to  do  it." 

"Can't  you  spare  a  little  game?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  don't  need  it  all  myself." 

"Want  to  kill  it  all  yourself,  eh?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  hardly  ever  shoot,  but  when  I  do,  I 
want  to  be  able  to  find  some  there.  These  fellows 
scare  off  all  that  they  don't  shoot.  Besides,  my  wife 
is  very  nervous,  and  is  afraid  of  strangers." 

"Maybe  their  wives  are  hungry  and  are  afraid  of 
starving,"  suggested  Sheriff  Burke. 

"Well,  of  course,  that  would  be  considered  in  miti- 
gation when  they  are  arrested,  but  I  am  not  sup- 
posed to  feed  the  whole  neighborhood.  All  I  want  is 
the  protection  that  the  law  gives  me." 

"And  you're  going  to  get  it,"  declared  the  Sheriff. 

"Certainly.  I  knew  it  would  be  all  right  as  soon 
as  I  spoke  to  you.  Send  Williams's  appointment  out 
to  him,  will  you?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  declared  Burke,  bluntly  and 
emphatically. 

"You  won't  ?    Why  not  ?"  asked  Arnold  in  surprise. 

"Because  I'm  not  going  to  appoint  him.  That's 
why." 

"What  is  your  objection?" 

"I  appoint  deputies  only  when  I  need  them.  It's 
no  part  of  my  official  duty  to  watch  your  property 
for  you.  If  you  know  of  any  violations  of  law,  and 
you  feel  like  prosecuting,  swear  to  complaints,  have 
warrants  issued,   and  I   will   serve  them.     I've  got 


84  LONG  SWEETENING 

something  more  to  do  than  chaperoning  your  game." 

"Do  you  purpose  to  permit  people  to  violate  the 
game  laws  with  impunity?"  demanded  Arnold  angrily. 

"I  intend  to  attend  strictly  to  my  own  business  and 
let  other  people  attend  to  theirs.  I  came  to  this  part 
of  the  country  when  the  game  was  as  free  as  the  air, 
and  everybody  helped  himself  to  what  he  needed  of 
both.  It's  against  the  law  to  kill  more  than  two  deer 
a  year  now,  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  against  the  law 
pretty  soon  to  take  more  than  two  breaths  a  minute. 
When  it  is,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  sneak  around  and  steal 
an  extra  breath  or  two  occasionally  to  keep  my  pipe 
going.  If  I'm  caught  at  it,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go 
to  jail,  where  there  isn't  any  air  to  speak  of,  and  quit 
smoking.  In  the  meantime  I'm  not  going  to  lose  any 
sleep  watching  for  the  man  that  feels  the  need  of  an 
extra  rabbit  or  quail,"  and  Sheriff  Burke  proceeded 
to  make  the  most  of  his  pipe  while  the  air  was  still 
free. 

"Then  you  refuse  to  make  this  appointment?"  de- 
manded Arnold,  his  face  flushing  with  anger. 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it.  As  long  as  I'm  Sheriff 
of  this  county,  I'm  not  going  to  have  any  private  depu- 
ties in  public  office,  or  public  deputies  in  private 
employment." 

"Then  you'll  not  be  Sheriff  of  this  county  very 
long,"  snorted  Arnold.  "I'll  attend  to  that."  His 
teeth  shut  with  a  snap. 

"Look  here,  Arnold !"  Sheriff  Burke  set  his  feet  on 
the  floor  and  laid  his  pipe  on  his  desk.     "Don't  get 


LONG  SWEETENING  85 

the  idea  into  your  head  that  because  you  have  a  little 
pond  up  in  the  redwoods  you  own  the  whole  county. 
Furthermore,  you're  trespassing  on  my  air.  You  get 
out  of  here,  and  mighty  damn  quick,  too!" 

The  little  old  Sheriff  uncoiled  himself  like  a  wire 
spring,  bounced  from  his  chair,  seized  Arnold  by  the 
collar;  and  ran  him  through  the  door,  just  as  County 
Treasurer  Cole  was  entering. 

"What's  the  matter,  Tom?"  he  inquired.  "Just 
speeding  the  parting  guest?" 

"Yeah." 

"That's  not  good  politics,  Tom.  He's  got  a  lot  of 
money  and  influence." 

"I  guess  I  did  make  a  mistake,  Jim,"  admitted  the 
Sheriff.  "I've  been  wanting  to  kick  that  fellow  for 
sixteen  years,  and  I  got  so  excited  I  plumb  forgot  it. 
I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  have  another  chance  like1 
that,"  and  he  shook  his  head  regretfully  over  the  lost 
opportunity. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Carson  broke  through  the  tangle  of  chaparral  at 
the  mouth  of  his  cave  and  stepped  out  on  the  narrow 
ledge  that  ran  across  the  face  of  the  cliff.  While  he 
let  his  eyes  dance  joyously  over  the  panorama  spread 
before  him  he  inhaled  the  crisp  morning  air  as  an 
epicure  would  drain  a  glass  of  rare  vintage — first,  with 
tantalizing  and  expectant  sips,  then  with  deep  full 
draughts  that  set  his  blood  bounding  and  tingling. 

The  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  shooting  over  the 
chemissal  range  to  the  East,  gilded  the  tips  of  the 
lance-like  pines  on  the  ridge  to  the  West,  and  the 
crown  of  oaks  on  the  towering  mountain  beyond. 
Deep  in  the  shadow  of  enfolding  hills  lay  Sapphire 
Lake — so  christened  by  the  Arnolds — its  glassy  sur- 
face broken  only  by  the  plash  of  leaping  trout  and  the 
widening  circles  they  left  behind  them.  Far  below 
him,  tiny  as  motes,  rabbits  raced  and  capered  in  a 
little  meadow,  careless  of  the  eagles  that  circled  the 
sentinel  pine  high  above.  In  the  distance  mountain 
quail  were  calling,  and  a  disturbed  gray-squirrel  was 
chattering  hysterically;  almost  at  his  elbow  a  sickle- 
bill  thrush  caroled  its  single  phrase. 

The  solemn  majesty,  the  radiant  beauty,  the  ex- 
quisite peacefulness  of  it  all,  obscured  and  almost  for- 
gotten through  years  of  bitterness  and  toil,  held  Car- 
son fascinated,  enraptured.  He  flung  out  his  arms 
as  though  he  would  seize  it  all  and  hug  it  to  his  breast, 

m 


LONG  SWEETENING  87 

forgetting  in  the  exaltation  of  the  moment  that  these 
woods  and  hills,  once  as  free  as  the  air  he  breathed, 
were  now  guarded  with  jealous  care — that  he  was  a 
mere  trespasser  on  private  property — a  poacher  in  a 
preserve. 

Carson  had  returned  with  no  definite  plan  or  fixed 
purpose,  first  impelled  by  the  necessity  of  freedom, 
then  prompted  by  the  instinct  that  leads  a  stricken 
animal  back  to  its  familiar  haunts.  For  a  week  he 
had  prowled  around  the  lake,  taking  fish  and  snaring 
game  almost  mechanically,  but  watching  the  bungalow 
with  as  little  intent  and  as  much  enmity  as  a  panther 
might.  Through  his  field  glasses  he  had  often  seen 
the  gamekeeper  and  occasionally  two  or  three  women, 
probably  servants,  but  had  had  no  glimpse  of  Arnold. 
With  a  sense  of  disappointment  came  the  realization 
that  he  had  been  instinctively  stalking  his  prey,  and 
he  frowned  as  he  pondered  what  moist  have  happened 
had  he  encountered  the  banker. 

Now,  for  the  first  time  since  leaving  the  hospital, 
he  reflected  upon  the  course  to  be  pursued;  for  the 
first  time  in  sixteen  years  he  faltered  and  wavered 
unconsciously,  unable  to  decide  at  once  between  the 
present  enjoyment  of  all  of  which  he  had  been  de- 
spoiled and  the  immediate  pursuit  of  the  despoiler. 
He  was  loath  to  turn  his  back  upon  the  quiet  delights 
of  which  he  had  so  long  been  deprived  and  return 
to  the  world  of  bitter  turmoil  he  had  so  long  endured. 
His  physician  was  right — he  needed  health  and 
strength  for  the  final  struggle,  and  the  reflection  that 


88  LONG  SWEETENING 

he  could  regain  them  at  his  enemy's  expense  brought 
the  first  smile  in  years. 

A  thread  of  smoke  rising  lazily  behind  the  pine- 
covered  mountain  that  shouldered  bulkily  into  the  lake 
recalled  him. 

"They're  getting  breakfast  at  the  bungalow,  and 
I'll  get  mine — and  I'll  stay  the  month  out,"  he  decided. 

Carson  turned  to  his  cave,  slung  his  fishing  rod  on 
his  back,  picked  his  way  along  the  ledge  to  its  West- 
ern extremity,  and,  with  bare  fingers  and  moccasined 
toes  searching  out  the  crevices,  scaled  the  cliff.  Re- 
calling one  of  his  boyhood  pranks,  he  balanced  him- 
self on  the  slender  footpath  at  the  top,  flung  a  stone 
into  the  gorge  on  the  other  side  and  watched  the 
startled  deer  spring  from  their  coverts  and  go  bound- 
ing away.  Then  he  hurried  on  through  a  chaparral 
thicket,  into  the  pine  forest,  and  down  to  a  cascading 
spring  near  the  lake  side  picking  up  dead  wood  as 
he  went.  A  fire  that  gave  no)  sign  of  smoke  was 
quickly  started;  cooking  utensils  were  drawn  from 
beneath  concealing  ferns  and  laurels ;  coffee  was  meas- 
ured into  the  pot;  johnny-cake  was  mixed  and  placed 
to  bake  in  the  Dutch  oven.  After  his  morning  plunge 
Carson  took  up  his  rod  and  skirted  the  lake  shore  to 
a  projecting  point  of  rocks,  where  he  would  have 
room  to  cast  and  still  be  hidden  from  the  bungalow 
half  a  mile  away.  He  peeped  over  the  point,  satisfied 
himself  that  the  coast  was  clear,  jointed  his  rod,  ran 
out  his  line  and  made  a  cast.     The  fly  had  scarcely 


LONG  SWEETENING  89 

touched  the  water  when  a  great  trout  rose  to  it,  seized 
it  and  set  the  reel  humming. 

The  thought  that  he  was  poaching  lent  zest  to  a 
sport  that  had  always  been  a  delight,  but  the  knowl- 
edge, that  his  breakfast  depended  upon  his  delicacy  and 
skill  set  his  nerves  tingling  ecstatically.  As  he  checked 
the  first  rush,  the  trout  leaped  high  in  the  air,  tried 
to  shake  itself  free,  splashed  back,  leaped  again  and 
dashed  away.  The  contest  between  the  gamest  of 
fish  and  the  expert  angler  was  on — cool,  merciless  skill 
matched  against  a  mad  desire  for  life  and  freedom. 
The  trout  rushed,  leaped  and  battled  blindly,  while 
Carson,  with  eager  eyes  and  compressed  lips,  played  it 
delicately,  firmly  and  patiently,  reeling  in  a  little  the 
instant  the  line  slackened,  yielding  a  little  when  it 
tautened. 

"Come  on,  Johnnie!  It's  no  use.  I've  got  you!"  he 
muttered  grimly,  as  he  felt  the  trout's  struggles  weak- 
ening. 

Thus  would  he  cast  for  John  Arnold,  hook  him,  and 
play  him  till  the  fellow  lay  gasping  at  his  feet.  And 
then — 

"Hey!  You  there!" 

The  explosion  of  a  dynamite  bomb  could  not  have 
been  more  startling  than  the  sound  of  a  human  voice 
at  that  time  and  place.  Carson  whirled  and  had  barely 
a  glimpse  of  a  blonde  head  bobbing  on  the  surface  of 
the  lake,  when  he  lost  his  footing,  sprawled  on  his 
stomach  and  began  sliding.  As  he  clawed  franctically 
at  the  smooth  rock  to  check  his  descent  he  heard  a 


90  LONG  SWEETENING 

burst  of  girlish  laughter,  followed  by  the  taunting 
invitation. 

"Come  on  in.    The  water's  fine  !" 

Carson  went  into  the  shallow  water  with  a  splash, 
and  as  he  floundered  among  the  slippery  rocks  at  the 
bottom  another  burst  of  laughter  swept  away  the  first 
sickening  chill  of  surprise  and  left  a  hot  wave  of  ex- 
asperation— resentment.  He  crawled  back  to  his  perch, 
dragging  his  rod  after  him,  and  stood  dripping,  frown- 
ing and  staring.  He  noted  a  pair  of  violet  eyes  regard- 
ing him  with  growing  disapproval,  well-rounded 
cheeks  glowing  with  abundant  health,  full  red  lips 
with  a  piquant  pout,  and  beneath  the  surface  the  flash 
of  white  limbs  industriously  treading  water.  He  felt 
his  leader  snap  and  scowled.  His  tormentor  instinct- 
ively drew  a  little  away,  and  without  a  word  or  glance 
Carson  busied  himself  with  his  line. 

If  he  had  unexpectedly  encountered  Arnold,  an 
armed  bandit  or  even  a  truculent  grizzly,  he  would 
not  have  avoided  the  issue,  but  this  situation  was  so 
far  beyond  his  experience,  actual  or  imaginary,  that 
he  felt  himself  confounded,  defeated,  routed — just  at 
the  moment  when  his  plans  had  crystallized — and  by  a 
chit  of  a  girl. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  demanded,  but 
she  was  thinking :  "He  is  half  sixty,  he  hasn't  shaved 
for  a  week,  he  is  more  than  six  feet  in  height,  and  he 
probably  has  teeth.  Now  he'll  show  them,  and  I'll  see 
whether  or  not  they're  snaggly." 


LONG  SWEETENING  91 

Carson  ignored  the  question  and  the  questioner,  but 
he  revolved  the  problem  in  his  mind  faster  than  the 
reel  in  his  hand.  He  would  not  be  driven  away.  That 
was  final.  He  must,  therefore,  temporise — resort 
to  cajolery  or  trickery.  She  was  probably  a  servant 
in  the  Arnold  menage — a  governess,  companion,  or 
maid,  in  which  case  bribery — 

"You're  poaching,  and  you  must  leave  at  once!" 

As  Carson  reached  the  end  of  his  line  he  turned  and 
showed  his  teeth — in  a  smile — teeth  that  were  wonder- 
fully white,  even  and  strong. 

"Are  you  a  water-sprite  or  a  gamewarden?"  he  asked 
as  he  doffed  his  cap  and  exposed  a  shock  of  black  hair 
that  curled  about  his  ears  and  over  his  forehead. 

The  unexpected  question  and  change  of  manner  dis- 
concerted her  for  the  moment,  and  she  could  only 
quote  a  little  uncertainly  from  the  trespass  notices  that 
hedged  the  place :  "You're  liable  to  prosecution  to  the 
full  extent  of  the  law." 

"You  are  plagiarizing,"  he  responded,  "and  that  is 
worse — it's  piracy." 

A  moment's  awkward  silence  followed.  They  were 
equally  non-plussed,  he  to  account  for  his  presence  and 
find  means  of  averting  the  consequences  of  discovery; 
she  at  encountering  a  poacher  with  the  speech  and  man- 
ners of  a  gentleman.  She  puckered  her  brow  in  an 
effort  to  reconcile  a  bristling  beard  and  moccasins  with 
"water-sprite"  and  "plagiarizing."  When  his  steady 
gaze  reminded  her  that  she  wore  a  single-piece  bathing- 
suit,  she  flushed  a  deeper  red,  paddled  up  to  the  rock, 


92  LONG  SWEETENING 

moored  herself  to  the  sheltered  side  of  it  and  scrutin- 
ized him  at  closer  range. 

"Well — are  you  going?"  she  demanded  in  a  tone  cal- 
culated to  remove  any  impression  that  her  approach 
might  be  construed  as  a  willingness  to  parley. 

"Certainly,"  replied  Carson,  as  he  began  un jointing 
his  rod,  "if  you  insist.  But  can't  I  have  my  breakfast 
first?  Just  a  little  coffee,  bacon  and  johnny-cake,"  he 
pleaded.  "You  have  already  deprived  me  of  my  piece 
de  resistance" 

She  made  no  response,  merely  eyed  him  with  uncom- 
promising disapproval.  Carson  shrugged. 

"Just  picture  it — a  hungry  man  with  a  hot  breakfast 
in  wild  flight  through  a  dark  forest  to  escape  an  in- 
dignant mermaid — the  protector  of  little  fishes !  Why, 
it's  opera  bouffe!" 

"Where  is  your  camp?"  she  asked,  when  she  felt 
her  nose  begin  to  crinkle  with  a  smile.  "It's  not  very 
far  from  here.  I  can  smell  the  smoke,"  and  she  sniffed 
back  the  laughter  bubbling  up  within  her. 

"And  if  you  had  been  a  few  minutes  later  you  would 
have  smelled  a  broiling  trout.  Then  you  would  never 
have  let  me  go  till  you  had  extorted  the  recipe." 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  She  might  as 
well  get  all  the  information  possible  concerning  his 
poaching. 

"Only  a  few  minutes,"  he  replied,  affecting  to  mis- 
understand. 

"I  mean — camping  here." 


LONG  SWEETENING  93 

"Oh!  I  haven't  been  camping  here  by  the  lake.  I 
merely  came  here  for  breakfast." 

"Where  are  you  camping,  then?" 

"I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you — exactly." 

"Was  it  you  who  killed  that  deer  over  West  of  the 
lake  the  other  day?" 

"No;  I  have  killed  no  deer." 

"But  you  have  fished  here  before." 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  incriminate  myself,  do 
you?"  he  laughed  "If  I  plead  guilty  and  make  a  full 
confession  will  you  put  me  on  probation?" 

"You  show  a  considerable  familiarity  with  the  crim- 
inal courts,"  she  responded  tartly. 

"Well — yes ;  I  have  had  some  experience  with  them," 
he  admitted. 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  wiH  have  more,  very  soon,  if 
you  don't  pay  closer  attention  to  trespass  notices  around 
here." 

"If  you  only  knew  what  a  pleasant  little  vacation 
you  are  spoiling,  you  might — " 

"Doesn't  it  occur  to  you  that  you  are  spoiling  the 
peace  and  quiet  of  our  vacation?  We  cannot  be  an- 
noyed by  strangers,  no  matter  how  inoffensive  they 
may  prove  to  be.  Only  a  few  days  ago  a  poacher 
threatened  the  gamekeeper,  when  he  was  caught  with 
a  deer  he  had  killed.  Abd  I  may  as  well  warn  you 
that  my  father  has  made  arrangements  with  the  Sheriff 
to  put  a  stop  to  it." 

Carson  started  and  fixed  her  with  his  piercing  black 
eyes,  narrowed  by  a  forbidding  frown. 


94  LONG  SWEETENING 

"And  unless  you  want  to  be  arrested  and  prosecuted 
you  had  better  leave  at  once,"  she  added  as  she  drew 
away  from  the  rocks. 

So  this  must  be  John  Arnold's  daughter,  Betty — the 
child  he  had  saved  from  drowning  years  before.  How 
stupid  of  him  not  to  have  guessed  it  at  once !  But  even 
now  that  he  knew  it  must  be  so,  it  was  difficult  to  as- 
sociate her  with  the  object  of  his  malignant  hatred. 

Without  a  word  or  a  backward  glance  he  turned  and 
strode  away,  she  watching  him  till  he  had  disappeared 
in  the  undergrowth,  wondering  why  his  manner  had 
changed  so  suddenly  upon  the  mere  mention  of  the 
Sheriff.  Carson  broiled  his  bacon  and  sipped  his  coffee 
deliberately.  After  pondering  the  incident,  he  felt  only 
a  slight  sense  of  irritation  over  the  loss  of  trout  for 
breakfast  and  his  carelessness  in  exposing  himself  to 
observation.  The  decision  of  the  morning — to  remain 
rest  and  recuperate — had  acted  upon  him  like  a  power- 
ful stimulant,  lifting  him  out  of  the  slough  of  aimless 
and  confused  depression  in  which  he  had  been  flounder- 
ing, and  placing  him  again  upon  the  firm  and  well-de- 
fined path  of  fixed  purpose.  The  first  shock  of  sur- 
prise had  merely  checked  for  an  instant  without  alter- 
ing his  determination,  for  John  Arnold's  daughter 
meant  no  more  to  him  than  a  threatening  gamekeeper 
or  a  barking  dog.  She  was  merely  another  obstacle  to 
be  reckoned  on  and  avoided.  On  the  whole,  the  en- 
counter had  been  fortunate,  for  she  had  forewarned 
him  of  an  active  campaign  against  trespassers,  and 
now  he  would  be  more  alert. 


CHAPTER  X. 

As  Betty  swam  back  to  her  canoe,  tied  in  the  shad- 
ow of  the  pines  a  hundred  yards  beyond  the  point  of 
rocks,  she  puzzled  over  the  identity  of  the  intruder. 
There  was  nothing-  about  him  to  suggest  the  ordinary 
tramp,  and  it  was  altogether  improbable  that  one  would 
have  found  his  way  there  from  the  railroad,  even  if  he 
had  grown  weary  of  brakebeams  and  box-cars.  Betty 
recalled  that  he  had  mentioned  a  vacation.  Hunters 
from  San  Francisco  frequently  camped  at  Warm 
Springs,  and  occasionally  one  would  find  the  bungalow, 
pause  long  enough  to  get  directions  concerning  the 
trails  and  pass  on.  But  this  man,  in  general  appear- 
ance, did  not  conform  to  the  type.  Besides,  the  fact 
that  he  had  selected  the  most  secluded  spot  on  the  place 
for  his  camp  argued  a  familiarity  with  the  locality.  His 
rugged,  sinewy  frame,  his  long,  swinging  stride  and 
his  moccasined  feet  suggested  the  mountaineer,  who 
let  his  little  corn  patch  and  large  family  grow  up  in 
a  haphazard  way,  while  he  occupied  himself  with  hunt- 
ing and  fishing;  but  the  jointed  rod  instead  of  a  peeled 
sapling,  the  khaki  suit  instead  of  butternut  and  over- 
alls, the  polished  speech  instead  of  the  broad  dialect 
of  the  mountains  instantly  refuted  the  thought.  It  wa9 
more  probable  that  he  was  what  was  termed  in  the 
vernacular  of  the  hills  a  "claimer" — one  with  little 
money  and  much  time,  who  files  a  homestead  on  a  bit 
of  government  timber  or  grazing*  land  and  waits  three 

(95) 


96  LONG  SWEETENING 

years  to  make  perfunctory  proof  of  residence,  improve- 
ment and  cultivation. 

Betty  climbed  into  her  canoe,  paddled  across  the 
lake  to  the  landing  place  under  the  laurels,  hurried  to 
the  bungalow  and  dressed  for  breakfast. 

"You're  late  this  morning,  Betty,"  Mrs.  Arnold  re- 
minded her.  "Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"Oh,  I  just  took  a  little  longer  swim  than  usual." 

"But  I  saw  you  in  the  canoe  at  the  other  side  of  the 
lake." 

"Yes ;  I  paddled  over  there." 

"You  must  be  more  careful  how  you  wander  about, 
especially  when  dangerous  characters  are  lurking 
around." 

"Oh,  mother!  Please  don't  let  Williams's  wild  tales 
disturb  you.  You  know  he  is  always  trying  to  frighten 
us  away." 

While  Betty  ate  her  breakfast  she  pondered  upon  the 
possible  diversions  of  the  day,  but  was  unable  to  reach 
a  decision.  A  new  novel  and  the  hammock  under  the 
redwoods  were  inviting,  the  quail  shooting  in  the  can- 
yon to  the  West  enticing,  a  long  tramp  over  the  hills 
and  a  cool  swim  in  the  lake  alluring.  That  recalled 
the  incident  of  the  morning  and  the  ridiculous  surprise 
of  the  poacher,  and  she  burst  into  laughter. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Betty?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Arnold,  her  mind  still  on  the  dangers  that  had  prompt- 
ed her  admonition. 

"Oh,  I  just  thought  of  something  funny,"  she  re- 
plied. 


LONG  SWEETENING  97 

"Well,  it  is  no  laughing  matter." 

But  for  the  unusual  episode  Betty  would  have  scarce- 
ly given  the  stranger  another  thought.  Again  she 
puzzled  over  the  incongruities  he  presented,  and  there 
was  just  enough  mystery  about  him  to  pique  her  curi- 
osity. Why  not  employ  the  forenoon  in  solving  it? 
She  knew  she  would  have  no  difficulty  in  locating  his 
camp.  It  must  be  near  the  spring  below  the  rock 
point.  If  he  had  gone,  she  might  find  some  clew  to  his 
identity.  If  he  still  remained,  she  would  inform  the 
Sheriff  when  he  came  and  have  the  fellow  investigated 
at  least. 

Betty  donned  her  hunting-suit — a  short  skirt,  heavy 
boots,  broad-brimmed  hat  and  bloomers — took  her  re- 
peating rifle,  paddled  across  the  lake  to  a  little  cove, 
tied  her  canoe  and  took  to  the  forest.  By  cutting 
across  the  high,  pine-covered  ridge  around  which  the 
lake  curved  to  the  East  she  could  approach  the  poach- 
ers camp  from  the  rear  without  being  observed,  and 
obtain  a  view  from  the  hillside  above. 

Betty  soon  reached  the  summit  and  began  a  slow  and 
cautious  descent,  picking  her  way  stealthily  down  a 
well-worn  deer  trail  and  pausing  at  frequent  intervals 
to  listen  or  to  peer  through  the  thick  timber  or  dense 
underbrush.  She  climbed  upon  the  trunk  of  a  fallen 
tree,  scarred  by  the  hoofs  of  deer  that  had  leaped  upon 
it,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  lake  below.  She  could 
hear  the  plash  of  the  little  cascade  and  caught  the 
acrid  odor  of  wood  smoke.    A  few  steps  would  bring 


98  LONG  SWEETENING 

her  to  the  edge  of  a  rocky  and  abrupt  declivity,  from 
which  she  could  look  directly  down  upon  the  camp. 

Betty's  face  was  flushed,  her  hands  were  trembling 
and  her  heart  was  thumping  with  the  delicious  excite- 
ment of  it  all.  She  thought  of  the  first  deer  she  had 
ever  stalked.  Just  as  she  was  getting  within  range  a 
lizard  had  scampered  from  beneath  her  feet,  drawing  a 
scream  that  had  sent  the  game  bounding  away.  She 
smiled  at  the  recollection,  sat  down  on  the  tree  trunk, 
slid  noiselessly  to  the  ground  and  took  one  step.  Zip! 
Her  ankle  was  seized,  her  feet  jerked  from  under  her, 
and  she  felt  herself  dangling  in  the  air  head  down- 
ward. She  uttered  a  cry  of  terror  and  fought  the 
skirt  away  from  her  face,  expecting,  she  knew  not 
what.  She  stared  wildly  about  her,  but  no  one  was 
near.  She  looked  at  her  ankle  and  saw  that  she  had 
been  neatly  noosed  with  a  piece  of  piano  wire  that  ran 
over  the  projecting  limb  of  a  pine  tree  to  the  top  of  a 
nearby  sapling.     She  had  been  caught  in  a  deer  snare. 

Betty  wondered  if  the  poacher  had  heard  her  outcry, 
hoping  he  had  not.  It  would  be  too  humiliating  to  be 
caught  spying  upon  him — to  be  found  hanging  by  the 
heels  like  a  snared  rabbit.  Angrily  she  tried  to  shake 
herself  free,  but  the  noose  only  gripped  the  tighter. 
She  bent  her  body  upward  and  grasped  the  wire,  hop- 
ing to  be  able  to  slacken  the  noose  and  extricate  herself, 
but  it  was  so  slender  she  could  not  grip  it.  Then  she 
set  herself  swinging  toward  a  nearby  hazel  bush,  think- 
ing that  if  she  could  grasp  it  she  might  be  able  to  bend 
the  sapling  down,  but  it  was  beyond  her  reach. 


LONG  SWEETENING  99 

She  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  her  head  in  a  suffocat- 
ing flood,  and  again  she  drew  herself  up,  clung  to  the 
wire  with  both  hands  till  it  cut  into  her  fingers,  then 
dropped  back  again.  What  could  she  do  ?  If  she  called 
for  help,  the  poacher  might  hear  her  and  release  her, 
but  she  was  alone  and  helpless,  for  her  rifle  lay  in 
the  path  where  it  had  fallen.  She  knew  her  absence 
from  the  house  would  cause  no  alarm  till  after  night- 
fall, and  that  she  would  not  be  found  till  the  next  day ; 
and  she  wondered  if  one  could  live  so  long  head  down- 
ward. If  she  could  only  work  her  fingers  under  the 
noose,  she  could  hold  her  head  up,  and  there  would 
be  no  danger  of  death,  but  the  prospect  of  a  day  and  a 
night  of  torture  terrified  her. 

Again  she  thought  of  crying  out  and  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  stranger.  He  might  still  be  at  his 
camp,  and  in  any  event  he  couldn't  have  gone  far.  He 
had  the  manners  of  a  gentleman,  but  still  he  might  even 
be  a  criminal  in  hiding.  One  could  never  tell.  Again 
she  recalled  his  start  at  the  mention  of  the  Sheriff,  and 
like  a  flash  it  came  to  her  that  he  was  the  mysterious 
highwayman  who  had  always  baffled  his  pursuers  so 
successfully.  And  she  had  been  face  to  face  with  him 
that  very  morning !  An  exclamation  on  the  trail  below 
startled  her,  and  twisting  her  head  around  she  saw  him 
only  a  few  feet  from  her. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  more  in  fear  than  in  anger.  "Go 
away !" 

"And  leave  you  hanging  there?" 


ioo  LONG  SWEETENING 

His  camp  equipment  dropped  with  a  clatter,  and  he 
ran  to  her  side.  He  seized  her  in  his  arms,  lifted  her 
upright  and  took  a  turn  of  the  wire  around  his  hand, 
while  Betty  struggled  and  beat  at  his  face  with  her 
clenched  fists.  With  the  strong  sapling  straining  at  the 
wire,  which  cut  deep  into  his  hands,  and  Betty  resist- 
ing with  all  her  strength,  his  efforts  to  release  her  were 
futile. 

"Please — "  a  stinging  blow  fell  on  his  forehead. 

Carson  released  the  wire,  and  the  sapling  straight- 
ened with  a  jerk  that  wrung  a  sharp  cry  of  pain  from 
her.  Under  the  exasperation  of  the  moment  his  first 
impulse  had  been  to  let  her  dangle  till  her  head  cool- 
ed ;  but  through  his  mind  flashed  the  thought  that  she 
might  have  suffered  a  fracture  or  a  dislocation.  Turn- 
ing his  face  to  avoid  the  fists  that  were  still  flying  about 
his  head,  he  pinned  her  arms  to  her  sides,  drew  her 
into  a  crushing  embrace  and  gave  her  a  shake  that 
made  her  teeth  rattle. 

"Stop  that!"  It  was  no  gentle  request,  but  a  com- 
mand to  which  there  could  be  but  one  response — obed- 
ience. 

Betty,  completely  terrorized  and  realizing  her  utter 
helplessness,  instantly  ceased  her  struggles  and  lay  in 
his  arms  limp  and  whimpering.  Even  then  it  required 
all  his  remaining  strength  to  bend  the  sapling,  draw 
the  wire  down  till  he  could  twist  it  around  his  foot 
and  remove  the  noose  from  her  ankle.  The  instant  he 
set  Betty  on  her  feet  she  bounded  away  from  him  and 


LONG  SWEETENING  ici 

faced  him  defiantly,  while  he  stood  looking  at  her  and 
wondering  how  she  had  escaped  injury. 

"Don't  you  dare — " 

He  picked  up  her  rifle,  handed  it  to  her  and  stepped 
back.     She  saw  with  relief  that  he  was  unarmed. 

"I  wish  you'd  go!"  She  stamped  her  foot  imperi- 
ously, blazing  with  mingled  anger  and  humiliation. 

"If  you  don't  mind  I  will  rest  just  a  moment."  With- 
out waiting  for  her  consent  he  seated  himself  on  the 
log  where  it  blocked  the  trail.  "I  have  been  out  of  a 
hospital  only  a  short  time,  and  it's  a  stiff  climb  up  here 
from  the  lake."  She  eyed  him,1  in  silence.  "But  it's 
fortunate  I  came  this  way,  or  you  would  have — " 

"I  would  have  been  found  dead  in  your  snare,  and 
jyou — "  She  was  about  to  say  that  he  would  have  added 
murder  to  his  other  crimes,  but  checked  herself. 

Carson  brushed  away  the  moisture  he  felt  accumu- 
lating on  his  forehead  and  left  a  smear  of  blood.  Betty 
gasped  and  grew  pale. 

"Oh!  Are  you  hurt?"  she  asked,  wondering  how  it 
could  have  happened. 

He  glanced  at  his  hand  and  saw  the  blood.  "It's 
nothing,"  he  replied.    "The  wire  cut  my  hand  a  little." 

"No — your  forehead!" 

She  noted  the  handkerchief,  unquestionably  clean 
and  of  fine  quality,  with  which  he  wiped  away  the 
blood  that  was  beginning  to  trickle  down  over  his  eye. 

"Oh,  just  a  brush  scratch,  I  suppose." 

Then  it  flashed  upon  her  that  she  had  struck  him  in 


:io2  .LONG  SWEETENING 

the  face — that  the  heavy  ring  on  her  ringer  had  cut 
him.     Still  it  was  nothing  to  what  he  deserved. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  that  you  are  not  hurt/'  he  observed. 
"I  had  feared—" 

"It's  no  fault  of  yours  that  I  wasn't — setting  snares 
here  where  any  one  might  walk  into  them." 

"It  is  a  beastly  thing  to  do,  isn't  it?" 

"Perfectly  fiendish!  Any  one  who  does  it  should  be 
sent  to  prison  for  life!" 

She  wondered  if  she  shouldn't  march  him  to  the 
bungalow  at  the  point  of  her  rifle  and  have  him  de- 
livered over  to  the  authorities  for  prosecution,  but 
abandoned  the  idea  when  she  thought  of  the  probable 
effect  upon  her  mother. 

"I  dare  say  you're  right,  but — " 

"There  are  no  buts  about  it.  Why,  it's  as  bad  as 
poisoning  springs!"  she  declared. 

He  shrugged  and  smiled  in  a  way  that  was  madden- 
ing. Notwithstanding  the  enormity  of  his  offense  and 
the  terrible  consequences  that  might  have  resulted,  he 
regarded  it  as  a  joke! 

"But,  I  was  about  to  explain — it  is  not  my  snare." 
Betty  stared  at  him  incredulously.  "From  the  tracks 
on  this  trail  I  should  say  it  was  placed  here  by  your 
gamekeeper." 

"Williams?"  For  the  moment  she  felt  dismayed. 
"Oh,  I—" 

"If  you  will  examine  them  I  think  you  will  find  they 
fit  his  boots." 


LONG  SWEETENING  103 

"If  Williams  did  that,  I'll  see  that  he  is  dismissed — 
immediately !" 

Her  resentment  instantly  veered  from  the  stranger, 
who  had  disturbed  her  for  only  a  few  moments,  to  the 
employee,  who  had  annoyed  her  for  years;  and  in 
the  one  who  had  provided  the  means  of  triumphing 
over  the  other  she  felt  a  sudden,  almost  friendly,  in- 
terest. 

"Why,  my  father  might  have  been  caught  in  one  of 
those  infernal  contrivances  and  hung  up  by  the  heels 
to  starve."  She  was  already  formulating  the  plea  that 
would  dispose  of  Williams. 

"That  would  have  been  very  unfortunate,"  observed 
Carson,  but  she  missed  the  irony  in  his  tone.  "If  there 
is  nothing  more  I  can  do  for  you  I  will  be  going  now." 

Still  thinking  of  the  gamekeeper  she  watched  Car- 
son as  he  gathered  up  his  impedimenta  and  till,  with 
a  smile  and  a  nod,  he  turned  to  the  trail  up  the  moun- 
tain. 

"I  am  very  grateful."  She  flushed  and  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"Don't  mention  it.  The  little  service  I  was  able  to 
render  scarcely  compensates  for  the  annoyance  I  have 
caused  you." 

"Did  you  say  you  were  just  out  of  a  hospital  ?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes;  a  week  ago.  But  I'm  feeling  like  a  new  man 
already — thanks  to  your  unconscious  hospitality." 

"Oh,  I  know  you  think  it  perfectly  horrid  of  me  to 


104  LONG  SWEETENING 

drive  you  away  from  here,  but — if  you  don't  go,  we 
will  have  to." 

"Why?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"Mother  is  so  timid  that  the  presence  of  strangers 
terrifies  her." 

"I  understand,  Miss  Arnold." 

"You  know  me?  Do  you  know  my  father?" 

"I — I  have  met  him — a  long  time  ago,"  and  Carson 
could  scarcely  repress  a  gathering  frown.  "But  he  has 
doubtless  forgotten  me." 

"How  silly  to  have  mistaken  him  for  a  bandit,"  she 
thought.  "If  he  has  met  my  father  he  must  be  quite  a 
respectable  person."  And  then  she  asked :  "Would  you 
mind  telling  me  who  you  are  ?" 

"Oh,  I  am  nobody  in  particular." 

"Don't  you  really  think  it  would  have  been  better  if 
you  had  asked  my  father's  permission  to  spend  your 
vacation  here?" 

"Is  he  here  now?"  he  asked  with  a  start  that  she 
mistook  for  an  acceptance  of  her  suggestion. 

"No ;  he  is  in  San  Francisco." 

"Do  you  think  it  all  likely  that  he  would  have  grant- 
ed such  a  request  ?"  he  asked  as  he  recalled  an  observa- 
tion of  Sheriff  Burke's:  "Arnold  would  put  out  the 
eye  of  a  one-eyed  man  if  he  caught  him  looking  at  his 
pond." 

"Well — it  would  depend  on  circumstances,  of 
course,"  she  admitted.  "If  he  knew  you  had  saved  my 
life  I  am  sure  he  would." 


LONG  SWEETENING  105 

Carson's  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  day,  sixteen  years 
before,  when  he  had  fished  her  out  of  the  lake,  and  her 
father  had  urged  him  to  remain  there  as  guide  and  care- 
taker. 

"But  he  is  not  here,  and  I  don't  dare  mention  the 
matter  to  my  mother,"  she  chattered  on.  "Aren't  there 
other  places  near  here  where  you  can  camp — and  find 
sufficient  fish  and  game?" 

"Certainly,  but  there's  not  another  place  on  earth  like 
this.  You  know  that.  Don't  you  love  every  rock,  every^ 
tree,  every  flower,  every  drop  of  water  in  this  little 
Eden?"  Betty  nodded.  "Of  course  you  do — you  who 
have  lived  here  from  childhood — and  must  understand. 
If  you  were  suddenly  expelled  from  it,  knowing  that 
in  all  probability  you  would  never  see  it  again,  what 
would  be  your  feelings?" 

"I  would  feel  like  committing  suicide — or  murder," 
declared  Betty,  without  hesitation.  "More  than  once 
I  have  felt  that  I  could  kill  Williams,  when  he  has  tried 
to  frighten  us  away;  and  I  know  how  you  must  feel 
toward  me.  But  this  is  not  your  home." 

Not  his  home — and  still  the  only  home  he  had  ever 
known!  They  stood  silent  and  thoughtful  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Would  you  like  to  stay  a  little  longer?"  she  asked 
shyly. 

"You  don't  have  to  ask  that." 

"How  long?" 

"Forever!" 


106  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Oh,  but  I'm  afraid  that  is  impossible,' '  she  laughed, 
"unless  you  can  get  Williams's  job." 

Carson  reflected.  If  permission  to  remain  were  grant- 
ed, his  identity  need  never  be  discovered,  and  Arnold 
would  never  know  he  had  been  there,  but  still — 

"I  don't  think  I  am  in  a  position  to  ask  any  favors," 
he  said. 

"Neither  am  I  in  a  position  to  grant  any,"  she  re- 
plied. "How  much  longer  would  you  have  stayed  here 
if — "  she  hesitated. 

"If  I  had  not  been  caught?"  she  nodded.  "Three 
weeks — no  longer." 

"Well,  if  you  should  find  it  impossible  to  leave  at 
once,  I  hope  you  will  take  only  what  fish  and  game  you 
actually  need." 

"I  had  not  thought  of  taking  more." 

"And  to  be  careful  of  your  fire." 

"I  would  feel  like  a  criminal  if  I  burned  a  single 
shrub." 

"But  I  warn  you  that  you  will  be  arrested  if  the 
gamewardens  catch  you." 

"I'll  chance  that.  But  aren't  you  making  yourself  a 
party  to  my  misdemeanors — an  accessory?" 

"No.  Remember,  I  ordered  you  off  the  place,  and 
you  refused  to  go.  Under  the  circumstances  I  shall 
say  nothing  about  it — unless  I  am  forced  to." 

"That  is  very  good  of  you.  Good-bye." 

"Good  luck !"  she  called  after  him  as  he  disappeared 
up  the  trail. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Carson  himself,  with  all  his  natural  acumen  and 
broad  experience  in  trapping  witnesses,  could  not  have 
prepared  a  more  cunning  pitfall  for  Williams  than 
Betty  did.  She,  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  was  sitting 
on  the  veranda  with  her  mother  when  the  gamekeeper 
returned  from  his  afternoon's  siesta 

"Oh,  Williams!"  called  Betty  languidly. 

"Yas'm!"  He  turned  and  shuffled  toward  them. 

"I  have  been  reading  an  English  story  about  poach- 
ers annoying  gamekeepers  by  laying  snares  for  rab- 
bits." 

"Yas'm." 

"I  suppose  a  gamekeeper  has  to  know  all  about  their 
tricks." 

"Yas'm." 

"How  is  a  snare  made?" 

"With  jest  a  piece  o'  wire  with  a  loop  in  it — an'  a 
trigger." 

"Could  ypu  show  me  how  one  is  set?" 

"Shore!" 

"I  don't  think  we  have  any  wire." 

"I  got  some." 

"I  hope  you  do  not  intend  to  snare  rabbits,  Betty," 
protested  Mrs.  Arnold,  as  Williams  hurried  away  to- 
ward his  cabin.     "It's  bad  enough  to  shoot  them." 

"No;  but  I  want  to  know  how  it  is  done." 

(107) 


r    -4 


108  LONG  SWEETENING 

Williams  returned  with  a  piece  of  noosed  wire  as 
slender  as  linen  thread,  and  several  small  bits  of  wood. 
"If  you'll  come  hyur,  I'll  show  you." 

Betty  watched  him  intently  as  he  adjusted  the  wire 
to  the  bent  branch  of  a  shrub,  pegged  down  the  noose, 
set  the  trigger  and  concealed  the  contrivance  under  a 
covering  of  leaves. 

"Now,  when  yur  rabbit  comes  along,  watch  what 
happens."  When  he  touched  the  covering  his  arm 
flew  into  the  air,  and  he  grinned  with  pride  as  he 
pointed  to  the  noose  around  his  wrist.    "See?" 

"Isn't  that  wonderful!"  exclaimed  Betty.  "And 
there  is  no  noise  to  frighten  other  game  away." 

"Narry  bit!" 

"It's  too  bad  one  can't  catch  deer  that  way." 

"You  kin— easy." 

"No !  You  can't  make  me  believe  that  slender  wire 
and  little  shrub  would  hold  a  deer,  Williams." 

"Course  not.  You  got  to  use  a  heavier  wire  an' 
fasten  it  to  a  bent  saplin'.  That's  all."  Betty  shook 
her  head  and  smiled  incredulously.  "I've  ketched  many 
a  one  that  a  way,"  declared  Williams,  determined 'to 
produce  conviction, — "when  I  wanted  a  little  ven'son — 
an'  didn't  want  to  scare  the  other  deer  off  with  shoot- 
in',"  he  added  hastily. 

"Suppose  a  man  should  step  into  a  deer  snare." 

"It'd  jes  about  jerk  the  livin'  lights  outen  'im,  an' 
hang  'im  up  till  somebody  tuck  him  down." 

"Do  you  think  you  could  snare  a  deer  for  us  ?  We 
haven't  had  any  venison  since  we  came." 


LONG  SWEETENING  109 

"Shore — any  time." 

"Where  would  be  a  good  place  to  set  a  snare?" 

"Oh,  any  place  where  they  use.  They's  a  trail  jest 
across  the  lake  thar  that  they  travel  ev'ry  night  a-com- 
in'  down  to  water." 

"Oh,  it's  rather  rough  climbing  over  there." 

"Not  very." 

"By  the  way,  which  is  better — a  few  hobnails  in 
your  boots  or  many?" 

"A  few'll  answer  (jest  as  well." 

"How  many  have  you  in  your  boots?"  Williams 
exposed  the  sole  of  his  boot  and  counted  six  in  the 
heel  and  a  dozen  in  the  toe.  Betty  scrutinized  them 
and  nodded.  "Oh,  I  suppose  that  was  one  of  your 
snares  I  saw  over  there  today — a  piece  of  heavy  wire 
fastened  to  the  top  of  a  sapling."  Williams  glanced  at 
her  sharply  and  shifted  from)  one  foot  to  the  other. 
"It  must  have  been,  for  I  saw  your  tracks  on  the 
trail  near  a  big  log — you  know  where  it  is."  Her 
tone  was  so  casual  that  Williams  felt  reassured. 

"Yes:  I  had  one  over  there.     Must  o'  forgot  it." 

Betty  glanced  toward  her  mother,  sitting  on  the 
veranda  nearby,  smiled  confidentially  and  lowered  her 
tone  a  trifle.     "It's  against  the  law,  isn't  it?" 

The  gamekeeper  nodded  and  grinned.  Betty  turned 
abruptly  and  joined  her  mother  on  the  veranda. 

"You  heard  all  that  Williams  said,  didn't  you, 
mother?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  but  I  hope  you  won't—" 


no  LONG  SWEETENING 

"You  heard  him  say  that,  in  violation  of  the  law, 
he  has  set  deer  snares  on  our  place  that  would  'jerk 
the  livin'  lights'  out  of  a  man  and  hang  him  up  to 
starve."  Williams  began  to  shift  uneasily  on  his  feet, 
and  Betty  turned  on  him,  her  eyes  blazing  with  indigna- 
tion. "Well,  I  was  caught  in  that  snare  of  yours  this 
morning,  and  had  the  'livin'  lights'  nearly  jerked  out 
of  me.  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?"  The 
gamekeeper  stared  at  her  in  dumb  amazement,  his 
jaw  sagging  lower  and  lower.  "The  noose  caught 
one  of  my  ankles,  and  it  is  no  fault  of  yours  that  I 
wasn't  found  there  hanging  head  downward — dead!" 

"Why,  Betty!"  gasped  Mrs.  Arnold,  and  she  turned 
an  accusing  eye  upon  Williams. 

"I  shall  take  this  matter  up  with  my  father  and  see 
that  he  dismisses  you  immediately,"  declared  Betty. 
"Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Y-y-yas'm!"  That  brought  his  jaw  in  position 
for  further  speech.  "But  what  I  kain't  understand 
is — "    He  paused  and  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

"What  is  there  about  it  that  you  don't  understand  ?" 

"Well — I  kain't  ezackly  understand  how  you  got 
outen  it." 

"That  will  be  all,  Williams !    You  may  go  now !" 

As  he  turned  and  slouched  away,  still  shaking  his 
head  over  the  unsolved  problem,  Betty  plunged  into 
a  vivid  but  carefully  expurgated  version  of  her  experi- 
ence, calculated  to  distract  her  mother's  attention  from 
the  question  that  had  been  raised,  and  at  the  same 


LONG  SWEETENING  1 1 1 

time  sufficiently  impress  her  with  the  heinous  character 
of  Williams's  offense.     It  was  useless. 

"But  how  did  you  ever  manage  to  get  out  of  it?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Arnold,  when  Betty  paused  for  breath. 

"Oh, — I — I  don't  think  I  could  explain  it — ex- 
actly— so  that  you  would  understand  it,"  she  flound- 
ered. "It  was  such  an  awful  experience  that — that  I 
just  can't  talk  about  it  any  more." 

When  she  ran  into  her  bedroom  and  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock  Mrs.  Arnold  thought  it  meant  a  flood  of 
tears,  but  Betty  sat  dry-eyed,  nipping  at  her  finger 
with  her  teeth,  and  wondering! 

"How  can  I  ever — ever  explain  it !" 

How  could  she  ever  tell  any  one  that  a  strange  man 
had  found  her  in  that  ridiculous  and  humiliating  posi- 
tion? Her  face  flushed  at  the  mere  recollection  of  it. 
And  instead  of  keeping  her  head  she  had  clawed  like 
a  cat  suspended  by  the  tail !  Again  she  felt  the  crush- 
ing embrace  of  his  strong  arms,  and  the  savage  shake 
that  had  reduced  her  to  submission.  If  he  had  beaten 
or  choked  her  into  insensibility  it  would  have  been  no 
more  than  she  had  deserved. 

Betty  suddenly  became  conscious  of  a  deep  sense  of 
gratitude  for  his  gentlemanly  forbearance,  followed  by 
the  fear  that  she  had  been  remiss  in  showing  or  ex- 
pressing it.  She  had  a  fleeting  impulse  to  confide  the 
whole  affair  to  her  mother  and  ask  that  the  stranger 
be  granted  the  privileges  of  the  preserve  for  a  limited 
time,  and  immediately  abandoned  it  as  impracticable. 


1 12  LONG  SWEETENING 

"But  I  would  like  to  know  who  he  is,"  she  admitted, 
then  felt  herself  torn  between  the  hope  and  the  fear 
that  she  might  meet  him  again. 

Betty  suddenly  started  and  glanced  at  the  door  with 
a  feeling  of  guilt — almost  alarm.  She  would  not  have 
been  surprised  if  she  had  found  him  standing  there  re- 
garding her  with  that  elusive,  unfathomable  smile.  If 
there  were  anything  in  telepathy,  he  must  have  felt  the 
thought  she  had  concentrated  upon  him.  She  felt  al- 
most as  if  she  had  been  caught  spying  upon  him.  In 
the  excitement  of  the  incident  she  had  forgotten  that  he 
had  caught  her  doing  that  very  thing.  And  now  she 
knew  she  never  wanted  to  see  him  again — never. 

Betty  might  have  spared  herself  her  humiliating  re- 
flections, for  she  was  as  far  from  Carson's  mind  as 
the  lizard  that  clung  to  the  side  of  a  nearby  rock  and 
watched  him  with  alert  eyes,  its  throat  palpitating  more 
with  curiosity  than  timidity.  The  precautions  im- 
posed upon  him  by  the  threatened  activity  of  game- 
wardens  would  necessarily  restrict  his  movements,  so 
Betty's  implied  permission  to  remain,  technically  a 
trespasser,  had  been  dismissed  as  a  matter  of  no  con- 
sequence— and  she  along  with  it. 

Carson  lay  on  his  back  beneath  the  shade  of  a  great 
madrona  on  the  summit  of  the  wooded  mountain  West 
of  the  lake,  his  clasped  hands  at  the  back  of  his  head, 
his  neglected  pipe  lying  at  his  side,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  distant  horizon,  where  the  giant  waves  of  green- 
timbered  ridges  dwindled  to  violet  ripples.  Up  the 
mighty  canyon  of  a  thousand  echoes  rolled  the  dimin- 


LONG  SWEETENING  1 13 

ishing  roar  of  a  falling  redwood ;  from  the  pines  near- 
by came  the  intermittent  drumming  of  a  grouse;  from 
all  sides  came  the  persistent  chirp  of  grasshoppers  and 
cicadas;  and  beneath  him  a  jagged  stone  was  pressing 
into  his  flesh.  But  he  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing, 
felt  nothing.  His  senses  drowsed  while  his  thoughts 
wandered  back  over  the  past.  The  pages  of  his  mem- 
ory, upon  which  every  fact  and  incident  had  been,  as 
he  supposed,  indelibly  inscribed,  he  had  found  faded, 
almost  illegible.  Time  had  erased  every  pang  and  dis- 
comfort, but  the  chemistry  of  association  had  freshened 
and  restored  every  joyous  detail — up  to  the  day  he  had 
been  turned  out  of  his  little  paradise.  From  that  mo- 
ment only  the  mental  tortures  he  had  endured  and  the 
reiterated  vows  of  savage  vengeance  were  set  down,  in 
somber  purple  or  flaming  red  that  nothing  would  ever 
obliterate.  In  all  the  years  it  covered,  not  an  instant's 
joy,  not  a  moment's  peace  had  been  noted. 

"What  a  world,"  mused  Carson.  "An  organic  atom 
infested  with  megalocephalic  bacteria,  all  controlled 
by  eternal,  immutable  and  incomprehensible  laws  of 
chance  and  accident!" 

If  there  had  been  the  swaying  of  a  bough  to  detain 
him  an  instant,  or  the  call  of  a  quail  to  turn  his  foot- 
steps into  another  path,  he  would  never  have  met 
John  Arnold.  Mirrored  in  his  memory  he  saw  again 
the  ignorant  uncouth  mountain  lad  caught  in  the 
meshes  of  the  law,  first  bewildered,  then  desperate  and 
finally  beaten  by  the  shrewd  and  unscrupulous  man  of 
affairs.    Now,  he  himself  vas  the  net-thrower  in  final 


1 14  LONG  SWEETENING 

training  to  meet  his  old  antagonist  in  the  arena,  net 
and  trident  against  sword  and  shield;  and  he  saw  his 
enemy  at  his  feet,  struggling,  gasping,  groveling,  and 
pleading  vainly  for  his  life.  That  one  moment  would 
compensate  him  for  all  the  years  of  painful  prepara- 
tion. That  would  be  the  end — of  John  Arnold;  but 
what  of  himself? 

Carson  recalled  with  a  start  that  every  thought,  hope, 
desire  and  ambition  had  ended  there.  What  of  the 
future?  He  must  go  on  living,  but  how — where?  If 
he  had  never  met  Arnold,  he  would  never  have  left  his 
mountain  home,  but  would  have  grown  up  a  rude 
mountaineer  clothed  in  skins,  gaining  a  bare  subsist- 
ence with  his  rifle  and  traps,  and  living  alone  in  his 
little  cabin  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  world  before 
his  day  or  beyond  his  vision — but  content.  What 
was  he  now  ?  A  highly  trained  and  perfectly  equipped 
man  of  that  outer  world,  already  successful,  distin- 
guished— and  thoroughly  unhappy.  What  had  he  to 
gain  from  a  continuance  of  the  battle  out  there? 
Money — nothing  else.  In  a  very  few  years  he  could 
amass  a  fortune,  retire  from  practice  and  race  through 
foreign  countries  or  lounge  in  a  stuffy  club.  Impos- 
sible— revolting ! 

And  then  the  thought  came  to  him  that  with  his 
fall  Arnold  would  be  forced  to  sell  his  country  place. 
He  could  purchase  it,  dispose  of  his  musty  law  books, 
buy  a  rifle  and  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  there. 
And  as  he  saw  himself  again  wearing  a  fur  cap,  deer- 
skin breeches  and  moccasins,  packing  a  bundle  of  pelts 


LONG  SWEETENING  1 1 5 

to  market,  buying  what  ammunition,  tobacco  and 
"sweet'nin'  "  he  needed  and  returning  to  his  hermit 
life,  he  understood  and  sympathized  with  the  tutored 
Indian  who  returns  to  his  blanket  and  tepee. 

"It  would  be  a  reversion  to  type/'  he  muttered,  and 
lingered  over  his  first  day-dream  of  the  new  future. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Carson  entered  into  the  game  of  hare  and  hounds 
with  all  the  ardor  and  enthusiasm  of  one  who  has 
made  a  club  wager.  The  threatened  appearance  of 
county  gamewardens — public  officials  never  so  diligent 
and  zealous  as  when  in  private  employ — only  revived 
the  sporting  quality  that  Betty's  implied  permission 
had  temporarily  extinguished.  As  he  had  already 
noted  the  restricted  orbit  in  which  Williams  revolved, 
and  was  no  longer  concerned  with  the  meteoric  move- 
ments of  the  girl,  he  watched,  somewhat  impatiently, 
for  the  predicted  appearance  of  the  new  satellites.  He 
knew  they  could  never  find  his  burrow  and  was  con- 
fident of  his  ability  to  escape  pursuit,  so  long  as  he 
avoided  a  surprise.  While  he  kept  to  the  high  ground 
and  moved  warily,  he  scanned  the  lower  trails  through 
his  glasses,  descending  only  at  the  peep  of  dawn  or  in 
the  dusk  of  evening  for  his  baths,  taking  his  trout 
and  his  breakfast  an  hour  earlier,  and  carefully  con- 
cealing all  traces  of  his  fire. 

For  several  days  Betty  kept  to  the  farther  end  of 
the  lake,  but  one  morning,  just  as  Carson  was  finishing 
his  breakfast,  he  saw  her  paddle  past  his  green  screen 
of  laurel  without  a  glance  in  his  direction,  land  at  the 
little  meadow  beyond  and  proceed  to  gather  the  wild 
flowers  that  grew  there  in  such  profusion. 

Carson  was  irritated.  Though  he  had  inconveni- 
enced himself  in  order  to  avoid  just  such  annoyances, 

(116) 


LONG  SWEETENING  117 

he  would  have  been  caught  in  his  bath  if  she  had  ap- 
appeared  a  few  minutes  earlier.  With  no  little  grum- 
bling and  a  great  deal  of  awkwardness  he  immediately, 
upon  his  return  to  his  cave,  converted  his  sweater  into 
a  bathing-suit  by  sewing  a  button  and  constructing  a 
button  hole  at  the  bottom  of  it.  A  couple  of  mornings 
later  he  had  just  jointed  his  rod  when  Betty's  canoe 
shot  around  the  point  of  rocks.  He  would  have  ig- 
nored her  if  she  had  not  nodded  at  his  first  glance 
in  her  direction  and  rested  her  paddle. 

"Good  morning,"  he  muttered. 

"Have  you  caught  your  breakfast  yet?"  inquired 
Betty. 

"Not  yet." 

He  ran  out  his  line  and  made  a  cast.  A  big  trout 
leaped  high  out  of  the  water. 

"Oh !  Isn't  it  a  beauty !"  she  exclaimed.  The  trout 
rushed  and  leaped  again.  "Let  me  land  it — won't 
you,  please?"  Without  waiting  for  an  answer  she 
paddled  into  the  little  cove,  sprang  from  her  canoe, 
scrambled  to  his  side  and  snatched  the  rod  from  his 
hands. 

Carson  stepped  back  and  watched  her,  first  with  in- 
different tolerance,  then  with  undisguised  contempt. 
Though  she  was  no  novice,  he  saw  at  once  that  she 
had  had  little  experience  with  large  fish  and  light  rods. 

"Give  him  more  line!"  he  ordered,  impatient  with 
her  bungling  attempts  to  drag  it  in.  The  reel  whizzed 
till  Betty  thought  it  would  never  stop.  "Check  him! 
Quick !    Give  him  the  butt !"    Carson  almost  shouted. 


1 18  LONG  SWEETENING 

Betty's  teeth  went  shut  with  a  snap,  but  she  obeyed. 
"Now,  reel  in !  Faster — so  you'll  be  ready  for  the  next 
rush!  You  don't  want  to  make  him  a  present  of  the 
line  and  rod  both !  There  he  goes  again !  Keep  your 
thumb  on  the  reel  I" 

Betty,  flushed  and  excited,  labored  grimly  with  the 
delicate  bamboo,  expecting  every  moment  that  it  would 
snap.  More  than  once  Carson  feared  the  loss  of  his 
breakfast,  his  leader  or  a  tip  before  Betty  finally  drew 
the  exhausted  fish  into  shallow  water. 

"You  can't  drag  a  four-pound  trout  out  of  the 
water  and  slam  it  up  on  the  bank  like  a  drowned 
catfish,"  he  expostulated,  as  he  slipped  his  fingers  un- 
der its  gills  and  lifted  it  flapping  out  of  the  water. 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  so  cross  about  it,"  she  re- 
torted. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — if  I  spoke  abruptly."  He 
stooped  and  busied  himself  with  the  hook  deep  in  the 
fish's  gills. 

"You  first  shouted  and  then  growled  at  me,"  she 
reminded  him. 

"Sorry." 

"It's  great  sport,  isn't  it?" 

Carson  grunted  a  grudging  assent  with  a  mental 
reservation  as  to  spectators.  When  he  had  disengaged 
the  hook  he  remembered  that  the  trophy  did  not  be- 
long to  him,  so  he  left  it  lying  on  the  grass  and  glanced 
at  Betty  questioningly. 

"How  do  you  cook  it  ?"  she  asked. 


LONG  SWEETENING  119 

"I  don't  think  I  shall/'  he  replied  with  a  slight 
shrug. 

"Why  not?" 

"It  belongs  to  you/' 

"But  what  could  I  do  with  it?" 

"Take  it  back  to  the  house  for  breakfast." 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  exactly  explain  it — without 
telling  on  you,"  she  laughed.  "And  anyway  I  would 
not  deprive  you  of  your  breakfast.  But  you  might 
give  me  your  recipe." 

"I  broil  it  and  add  a  few  trimmings.  Can  I  offer 
you  a  bit?"  he  asked  perfunctorily. 

"No — thanks.  My  breakfast  will  be  ready  for  me 
by  the  time  I  get  back.    Oh!    My  canoe!" 

In  landing  Betty  had  not  taken  time  to  secure  it, 
and  it  had  drifted  out  into  the  lake.  She  started  quick- 
ly toward  the  water. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Carson. 

"Get  it,"  she  replied. 

"You're  not  going  to  swim  for  it?" 

"How  else?    I  can't  whistle  it  back." 

"But  you'll  get  wet." 

"I  usually  do,  when  I  swim." 

"Let  me  get  it."     He  started  toward  the  lake. 

"No,  no !     Don't  trouble  yourself." 

"It  will  drift  ashore  there  in  a  little  while,"  he  said, 
as  he  noted  the  direction  of  the  gentle  morning  breeze. 
"If  you're  not  in  a  hurry,  perhaps  you  would  share 
my  breakfast  while  you're  waiting,"     On  the  whole 


120  LONG  SWEETENING 

it  would  be  less  bother  than  drying  his  clothes.  "I 
haven't  much — only  johnny-cake,  coffee  and  trout." 

Betty  looked  at  the  drifting  canoe  and  then  at  Car- 
son, in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  should  be  obviously 
shocked  or  carelessly  ingenuous.  He  was  eyeing  her 
evenly  and  awaiting  her  answer.  She  decided  to 
compromise  on  vicarious  disapproval. 

"Mother  would  be  horrified  at  anything  so  uncon- 
ventional," she  said,  "but  I  really  must  find  out  how 
you  cook  trout." 

Carson  muttered  something  about  conventionality 
yielding  to  necessity,  picked  up  the  fish  and  led  the 
way  to  his  fire.  Betty,  following  at  his  heels,  had 
ample  opportunity  to  note  his  erect  carriage,  the  con- 
fident swing  of  his  shoulders  and  his  light-footed,  elas- 
tic stride.  She  sat  on  a  rock  with  her  chin  in  her 
hands  and  watched  him  deftly  split  the  trout,  place 
a  strip  of  bacon  and  a  dried  bay  leaf  on  each  half,  rake 
out  a  bed  of  glowing  coals  and  lay  the  fish  upon  them. 

"Why  is  it  that  no  smoke  ever  rises  from  your  fire?" 
she  asked.  "I  have  watched  for  it  but  have  never  seen 
it." 

"I  am  careful  to  use  wood  that  is  thoroughly  dried," 
he  exclaimed. 

She  studied  him  at  her  leisure,  while  he  busied  him- 
self with  his  cookery,  but,  between  the  concealing  cap 
drawn  nearly  to  his  heavy  black  eye-brows  and  the 
bristling  beard  growing  well  up  on  his  high  cheek 
bones,  she  could  discover  little  except  a  thin  and  de- 
cidedly aquiline  nose  between  a  pair  of  very  black  and 


LONG  SWEETENING  121 

disconcerting  eyes.  Unconscious  of  her  scrutiny  Car- 
son proceeded  silently  with  the  preparations  for  their 
breakfast,  inspecting  his  johnny-cake,  throwing  a  dash 
of  cold  water  into  his  boiling  coffee  and  getting  a  jar 
of  butter  and  a  can  of  condensed  cream  from  the 
spring.  Then  he  chopped  some  green  stuff  fine  with  his 
hunting  knife  and  sprinkled  it  over  the  browning  trout. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Betty. 

"The  secret — wood  sorrel  and  angelica — a  sort  of 
wild  celery,"  replied  Carson.  "It  lends  a  piquancy 
that  never  can  be  achieved  with,  lemon  juice  and 
parsley." 

He  placed  a  portion  of  the  fish  upon  a  tin  plate 
with  a  piece  of  johnny-cake  beside  it,  filled  the  tin  cup 
with  coffee  and  set  all  on  a  flat-topped  rock  beside 
her. 

"This  is  my  table.  Do  you  take  sweet'nin' ?"  he 
asked,  as  he  took  up  the  sugar.  He  had  not  employed 
the  word  for  years,  but  it  came  naturally  to  his  lips. 

Betty  laughed.  "That  sounds  so  natural  and  home- 
like," she  confided.  "When  my  father  bought  this 
place  he  named  it  'Long  Sweetening/  and  we  have  used 
the  word  ever  since.     When  he  first  came  here — " 

"How  many  lumps?"  interrupted  Carson,  with  a 
frown.  He  gave  her  a  knife  and  fork  and  stood 
waiting  for  her  to  taste  the  fish. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  eat  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  shall  have  to  wait  for  the  second  table.  I  ex- 
pected no  guests  and  consequently  have  equipment 
for  but  one." 


122  LONG  SWEETENING 

"So  this  is  your  camp." 

"My  kitchen  and  dining-room/ '  he  corrected. 

"Then  where  is  your  camp?" 

"Taste  the  fish,"  suggested  Carson  evasively. 

"It's  perfectly  delicious,"  she  declared. 

"I  thought  you  would  approve  it." 

"Where  did  you  say  your  camp  is  ?"  she  asked  again. 

"I  didn't  say." 

"Oh!     Do  you  fear  an  invasion?" 

"No;  but — "     Carson  hesitated. 

"Never  mind.  I  will  find  it  when  you  are  gone," 
she  promised.  "Nothing  can  remain  long  hidden  from 
me  here." 

"No;  you  will  never  find  it,"  he  declared  just  as 
positively.  "I'll  wager  you  haven't  even  found  my  con- 
servatory."    He  immediately  regretted  the  remark. 

"Your  conservatory!    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  it's  merely  a  little  nook  in  the  redwoods,  where 
there  are  some  orchids  and  ferns." 

"Orchids!" 

"Yes — lady-slippers." 

"Why,  I  have  never  seen  one."  He  did  not  tell 
her  that  years  before  he  had  carefully  transplanted 
every  one  he  had  ever  found.  "Are  they  in  bloom 
now  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Won't  you  share  your  conservatory  with  me  ?"  she 
pleaded  with  a  pout.  "Please  tell  me  where  it  is. 
I'll  promise  not  to  pick  any  of  the  lady-slippers." 


LONG  SWEETENING  123 

"Well,  you  know  where  the  bridge  crosses  the  out- 
let of  the  little  pond  in  the  redwoods." 

"Yes." 

"It  is  just  off  the  road  to  the  right — not  fifteen  feet 
from  it." 

"I  shall  go  there  as  soon  as  I  get  back  to  the 
bungalow,"  she  declared. 

When  Betty  had  finished  her  breakfast  Carson  went 
with  her  to  find  her  canoe,  delaying  his  meal  till  later. 

"You  seem  to  be  ardently  devoted  to  your  boating 
and  swimming,"  he  observed  as  they  walked  toward 
the  shore. 

"Oh,  I  adore  the  lake,"  replied  Betty  enthusiastical- 
ly. "When  I  first  saw  it  I  was  only  a  baby,  but  I 
walked  right  into  it  and  nearly  drowned.  And  they 
have  never  been  able  to  keep  me  away  from  it  or  out 
of  it.  Mother  has  predicted  almost  every  day  for  years 
that  I  will  have  a  cramp  and  drown,  but  I'd  rather 
die  in  it  than  away  from  it." 

The  canoe  had  drifted  ashore  only  a  few  yards 
away,  as  Carson  knew  it  would. 

"Thanks  so  much  for  the  delicious  breakfast,"  said 
Betty,  "and  in  advance  for  the  conservatory." 

"You're  quite  welcome,"  he  replied,  "since  it  is 
already  yours,"  and  she  paddled  away. 

Carson  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  her.  Unconventional 
and  inquisitive  girls  who  interrupted  and  delayed  one's 
breakfast  were  nuisances.  Still,  upon  reflection,  he 
considered  it  quite  probable  that  poachers  who  fright- 
ened timid  mothers  might  justly  be  placed  in  the  same 


i24  LONG  SWEETENING 

category;  and  if  she  could  tolerate  him  he  should 
be  equally  complaisant.  He  hoped,  however,  that  he 
had  seen  the  last  of  her.  Vain  hope!  At  his  break- 
fast the  next  morning  he  was  startled  by  a  "Hoo-hoo !" 
from  the  lake. 

"There  she  is  again,"  he  growled  and  continued  with 
his  meal. 

The  call  was  repeated.  Obviously  she  was  trying 
to  attract  his  attention,  and  it  irritated  him.  Debating 
whether  to  hide  himself  or  remain  quite  still  where  he 
was,  he  parted  the  bushes  and  peered  out.  Betty  was 
paddling  toward  the  shore.  She  evidently  meant  to 
find  him,  and  there  was  no  escape,  so  he  stepped  out 
into  view. 

"I  couldn't  find  your  conservatory,"  she  said  petu- 
lantly.    "I  don't  believe  you  have  one." 

"Did  you  look  for  it?" 

"Of  course  I  did." 

"So  you  couldn't  find  it,  even  after  I  had  told  you 
where  it  is,"  he  taunted. 

"I  believe  you  were  merely  romancing,"  declared 
Betty. 

"Oh,  no;  I  wasn't." 

"I  wish  you'd  show  it  to  me,  then." 

Carson  had  planned  an  excursion  in  that  direction 
for  the  afternoon.  To  go  there  would  be  a  very  little 
out  of  his  way,  and  if  her  curiosity  were  once  satisfied, 
perhaps  she  would  leave  him  alone." 

"All  right.    I'll  show  it  to  you." 

"When?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  125 

He  reflected.  The  place  was  only  about  a  mile  due 
North  of  his  cave,  but  a  good  four  miles  by  the  long 
detour  necessary  to  avoid  the  open  trails  near  the  lake. 

"Can  you  meet  me  at  the  bridge  at  three  o'clock  ?" 

"I'll  be  there,"  she  promised. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Idling  about  his  cave  during  the  forenoon  Carson 
glanced  in  his  small  hand-mirror  for  the  first  time  since 
his  return  to  the  mountains,  and  was  startled  at  the 
unfamiliar  reflection. 

"I  do  certainly  look  villainous/'  he  muttered  as  he 
rubbed  a  hand  over  his  black  scrubby  beard.  "I  won- 
der if  my  lawn-mower  will  cut  that  brush." 

He  searched  out  his  safety  razor  and  was  ready  for 
the  tortures  of  a  cold  shave  before  it  occurred  to  him 
that  there  was  no  reason  for  him  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances, and  that  a  beard  might  conceal  his  identity  in 
the  event  of  any  unexpected  encounter ;  so  he  laid  aside 
his  razor  and  began  preparations  for  the  afternoon's 
tramp. 

Carson  had  the  choice  of  two  routes  about  equal  in 
distance.  He  selected  the  one  to  the  East — the  more 
difficult  but  less  exposed  of  the  two — taking  a  deer 
trail  from  the  Hog's  Back  to  the  top  of  a  high  chemis- 
sal  ridge,  keeping  to  its  summit  till  he  reached  a  canyon 
leading  to  the  Northwest,  and  following  it  to  the  pond 
at  its  mouth.  He  reached  the  spot  a  little  before  the 
time  appointed,  but  found  Betty  perched  on  the  trunk 
of  a  fallen  redwood  awaiting  him. 

"I  see  you  have  found  it,"  observed  Carson. 

Though  Betty  had  been  straining  her  ears  for  the 
sound  of  his  approach  and  wondering  from  which  di- 
rection he  would  come,  she  had  not  heard  so  much  as 


(126) 


LONG  SWEETENING  127 

the  crackle  of  a  leaf,  and  the  voice  almost  at  her  side 
startled  her. 

"Oh !"  She  flushed  and  looked  about  her  in  a  puz- 
zled way. 

"You  see,  I  was  not  romancing  after  all." 

"But  where  is  it?" 

"You  are  sitting  on  it,"  replied  Carson,  with  a 
laugh  of  triumph.  "Come  down  off  the  roof  and  look 
m. 

He  brushed  aside  the  fronds  of  the  giant  Wood- 
wardia  fern  that  reached  above  his  head  and  touched 
her  feet.  Betty  sprang  down  beside  him  and  peered 
through  the  opening  he  had  made.  In  a  little  depres- 
sion spanned  and  sheltered  by  the  tree  trunk  she  saw 
a  bed  of  rare  lilies  through  which  a  tiny  rivulet 
trickled,  and  a  mossy  bank  where  lady-slippers  bloomed 
among  the  maiden-hair. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed  ecstatically.  "How  perfectly 
exquisite!     It's  like  a  little  corner  of  fairyland." 

She  stretched  eager  hands  toward  them,  and  Car- 
son flinched,  but  before  her  fingers  could  touch  one 
of  the  dainty  blossoms  she  checked  herself.  "No;  it 
would  be  a  sacrilege!"  she  said. 

Carson  caught  his  breath  and  with  unconscious  rev- 
erence bared  his  head.  Her  words,  as  grateful  as  one's 
native  tongue  to  the  ear  of  an  exile  in  foreign  lands, 
touched  the  depths  of  his  lonely  soul.  Here  was  one 
who  understood.  When  she  turned  he  was  smiling, 
and  in  his  fathomless  eyes  was  a  soft  limpidity  that 
invited  search. 


128  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  matched 
the  eyes,  "and  I  will  show  you  something  you  have 
never  seen — something  as  big,  and  broad,  and  glorious 
as  this  is  delicate  and  exquisite." 

Without  a  word  or  doubt  she  followed  him  through 
a  tangle  of  hazel  and  huckleberry  brush  to  the  summit 
of  a  low,  timbered  ridge.  There  he  stopped  and  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  field  of  tiger  lilies  just  beyond 
the  pond  below  them. 

"They  are  beautiful,  but  I  have  seen  them  almost 
daily/'  said  Betty  in  evident  disappointment. 

"But  never  as  you  will  see  them  in  a  few  minutes. 
Sit  here  and  wait  till  the  sun  strikes  through  that  open- 
ing in  the  forest  beyond." 

Betty  watched  breathlessly,  and,  as  the  first  rays 
flashed  a  fiery  path  across  the  field  of  blossoms,  uttered 
a  quick  cry  of  pleasure  and  surprise. 

"Wait!"  he  warned. 

Slowly  the  light  spread  till  the  whole  field  was 
ablaze.  Where  the  gently  swaying  boughs  of  a  distant 
redwood  cast  their  shadows  for  an  instant,  she  saw  the 
curl  of  smoke;  where  the  sunlight  flashed  through 
again,  the  leap  of  flame.  Betty  sat  silent,  immobile, 
completely  enthralled. 

"Now  watch  it  die,"  murmured  Carson. 

As  the  sun  sank  slowly  behind  wooded  hills  the 
field  grew  dull  and  dark  again,  with  only  here  and 
there  a  spot  that  still  glowed  red  like  the  dying  embers 
of  a  fire  burned  low. 


LONG  SWEETENING  129 

"It's  an  epitome  of  human  life,"  said  Carson  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness,  "springing  suddenly  into  exist- 
ence, blazing  beautifully  for  a  moment  and  then  ex- 
piring, leaving  only  a  bed  of  ashes.,, 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  protested.  "Look  at  the  glori- 
ous afterglow,  like  the  recollections  of  a  life  well- 
lived.     I  have  never  seen  anything  so  wonderful." 

"That  is  only  one  of  a  hundred  marvels  in  these 
mountains." 

"And  to  think  that  I  have  spent  half  my  life  here 
and  have  never  seen  them,  while  you — "  She  stopped 
and  threw  him  a  startled  glance.  "Why!  You  must 
have  been  here  before!" 

"Naturally." 

"I  mean — in  other  years." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "I  once  knew  this  part  of  Cali- 
fornia fairly  well." 

"Won't  you  show  me  something  else?" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  scarcely  have  time  now  to  reach 
my  camp  before  dark." 

"I  meant  tomorrow — some  other  time." 

"Tomorrow?"  He  hesitated,  trying  to  frame  a 
plausible  excuse  for  a  refusal. 

"Don't  you  care  to?" 

"I  have  planned  to  climb  Eagle  Peak  tomorrow." 
He  was  confident  the  long  tramp  and  all  but  impossi1  le 
ascent  would  discourage  her. 

"Oh !  Just  the  thing !"  she  declared  enthusiastically, 
springing  up  as  though  ready  to  start  at  once.     "I 


130  LONG  SWEETENING 

have  been  wild  to  climb  it  for  years.  I  tried  once 
but  couldn't  quite  make  it.    Can  it  be  done?" 

"Ye-es — by  a  strong  and  experienced  mountain 
climber;  but  it  would  be  too  much  for  you." 

"No,  no — really!  I  can  go  anywhere  you  can,  if 
you'll  only  lead  the  way." 

"It  is  really  not  worth  while,"  he  argued,  "unless 
you  reach  the  summit  in  time  to  see  the  sun  rise,  and 
then  you  have  to  start  before  daylight,  or  to  see  the 
sun  set,  and  then  you  can't  get  home  till  after  dark." 

Carson  stood  watching  Betty  while  she  pondered, 
confident  that  a  little  reflection  would  cool  her  impul- 
sive ardor,  but  she  was  considering  the  alternatives, 
thinking  not  at  all  of  the  physical  difficulties,  nor  even 
of  the  indiscretion  of  trusting  herself  to  a  strange 
guide  on  a  secret  excursion  into  the  wilds. 

"Suppose  we  go  in  the  afternoon,"  she  decided. 
"Where  and  at  what  time  shall  I  meet  you?" 

"Really,  I — I  don't  think  you  had  better  attempt  it," 
protested  Carson,  fearing  he  would  be  forced  to  an 
undertaking  for  which  he  had  no  relish. 

"Tell  me — honestly  and  truly — "  she  said,  searching 
his  face  with  grave  eyes,  "is  it  because  you  think  it  is 
too  difficult,  or  because  you  believe  I  will  be  an  encum- 
brance ?    Or  because  you — you  would  rather  go  alone  ?" 

"I — I  would  rather — "  Carson  groped  for  words 
to  tell  her  without  offense  that  he  had  come  to  the 
mountains  for  the  rest  and  contentment  that  one  finds 
only  in  solitude.     "I  would  rather  not  expose  you  to 


LONG  SWEETENING  131 

hardships  you  evidently  underestimate,"  he  finished 
lamely. 

"But  I  have  been  very  close  to  the  summit  alone," 
she  argued. 

"Very  well — tomorrow  afternoon."  Carson  con- 
sidered a  moment  and  mentioned  a  convenient  land- 
mark. "Meet  me  there  at  one  o'clock.  I  must  be  go- 
ing now." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for— all  this?" 

"Oh — I'm  nobody  in  particular." 

"No?    But  you'll  surely  be  somebody  some  day." 

He  shrugged.  "When  I  am,  you  will  know  me." 
He  had  almost  said:  "You  may  not  want  to  know 
me. 

"Until  then  your  identity  is  to  remain  hidden  in 
your  camp?" 

"I  would  prefer  it." 

"Very  well."  She  laughed.  "I  shall  not  try  to  dis- 
cover either,  till  you  are  gone,  but  I  know  I  shall  nearly 
die  of  curiosity — about  your  camp." 

"Then  good-bye  till  tomorrow." 

She  watched  him  till  he  had  disappeared  in  the  forest, 
and  as  she  strolled  homeward  speculated  again  as  to 
his  identity  and  station  in  life.  Obviously  he  was  a 
gentleman,  even  though  he  showed  none  of  the  savoir 
faire  of  the  fashionable  world;  but  why  should  one 
merely  in  search  of  health  surround  himself  with  mys- 
tery? Though  he  might  consider  it  expedient  to  hide 
his  camp  from  the  gamekeeper  and  his  identity  from 


132  LONG  SWEETENING 

an  arresting  officer,  why  should  he  practice  conceal- 
ment with  her  ?  He  either  had  a  very  good  reason  or 
a  very  trifling  one.  In  all  probability  it  was  solely 
to  excite  her  curiosity,  and  she  flushed  at  the  thought 
of  his  success. 

When  Betty  reached  the  bungalow  she  found  her 
mother  in  the  customary  flutter  of  fear  and  excitement. 
Williams,  who  had  been  making  an  extraordinary  show 
of  activity  since  the  threatened  dismissal,  had  seen 
another  stage  robber.  A  few  questions  satisfied  Betty 
that  he  had  not  seen  her  guide  of  the  afternoon.  Then 
she  applied  herself  to  her  usual  task,  first  as  a  pallia- 
tive, then  as  a  counter-irritant,  but  her  mother  seemed 
determined  on  their  immediate  return  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. 

"It  is  more  on  your  account  than  on  my  own,"  she 
declared.  "You  wander  away — heavens  only  knows 
where — unprotected  and  unarmed,  apparently  with  no 
sense  of  fear  or  no  appreciation  of  the  peril  to  which 
you  constantly  expose  yourself.  Either  you  must  re- 
main within  sight  and  call  of  the  bungalow,  or  I  will 
take  you  away  from  here  as  soon  as  a  conveyance  can 
be  procured/'  was  Mrs.  Arnold's  ultimatum. 

Betty  had  plenty  of  time  for  reflection  and  was 
forced  to  admit  to  herself  that  she  had  been  imprudent, 
and  that  her  mother's  apprehensions  were  not  alto- 
gether groundless.  It  was  doubtless  foolhardy  to  trust 
herself  completely  in  the  hands  of  a  stranger  who  re- 
fused to  raise  himself  above  suspicion,  even  though  he 


LONG  SWEETENING  133 

had  not  invited  her  confidence  and  seemed  not  to  de- 
sire her  companionship. 

If  Betty  had  not  overslept  the  next  morning  she 
would  have  intruded  on  Carson's  breakfast  long 
enough  to  tell  him  that  she  could  not  accompany  him. 
Anyway,  he  would  understand,  when  she  failed  to  ap- 
pear at  the  appointed  place,  that  something  had  inter- 
vened. 

"You  are  quite  right,  mother,"  she  admitted  at 
breakfast.  "I  have  been  very  careless  and  thought- 
less.    I'm  sorry." 

Mrs.  Arnold  was  so  amazed  at  Betty's  unusual  amen- 
ability that  she  could  only  gasp : 

"Aren't  you  feeling  well  today,  dear?" 

Being  assured  that  no  temporary  indisposition  was 
responsible  for  the  unexpected  conversion,  Mrs.  Ar- 
nold could  only  wonder  at  its  cause  and  hope  for  its 
permanency.  During  the  whole  forenoon  she  minis- 
tered assiduously  to  Betty's  comfort,  but  nevertheless 
saw  her  daughter  growing  hourly  more  restive. 

"If  you  don't  really  mind,  mother,"  said  Betty  at 
last,  "I  believe  I  will  take  a  little  tramp  this  afternoon." 

Mrs.  Arnold  did  her  best  to  dissuade  her,  but  fear- 
ful that  too  much  opposition  might  entirely  destroy 
the  resolution  of  the  morning  finally  yielded  a  reluc- 
tant consent,  after  Betty  had  promised  to  take  her 
rifle  and  be  cautious  and  watchful. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Carson  was  in  no  amiable  mood  when  he  found 
himself  waiting  for  the  girl  who  had  forced  her  com- 
panionship and  an  arduous  undertaking  upon  him.  He 
was  unaccustomed  to  accommodating  himself  to  the 
plans  or  caprices  of  others,  and  she  was  late. 

"Am  I  on  time  ?"  she  asked  with  exasperating  cheer- 
fulness, when  she  came  hurrying  up  to  him. 

"No." 

"Oh!     Am  I  late?" 

"About  half  an  hour." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  couldn't  help  it,"  she  apologized. 
"Williams  saw  another  stage  robber  yesterday,  and 
frightened  mother  so  that  I  had  considerable  difficulty 
in  getting  away." 

"You  surely  don't  intend  to  lug  that  gun  along,  do 
you?"  he  growled.  "You'll  have  all  you  can  handle 
without  it." 

"Just  as  you  think  best,"  she  replied. 

"Leave  it  here  and  pick  it  up  as  we  come  back." 
She  laid  it  beside  a  log.  "Come  on — it's  growing 
late." 

Betty  flushed  resentfully  at  his  tone  and  manner 
and  hesitated  an  instant,  debating  whether  to  order 
him  from  the  place  peremptorily  or  to  refuse  his  grudg- 
ing guidance.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  his  irrita- 
bility might  be  attributable  to  ill-health,  and,  anyway, 
it  was  preferable  that  he  should  be  boorish  rather  than 

(134) 


LONG  SWEETENING  135 

presumptuous.  So  she  smothered  the  rebellion  that 
had  risen  in  her,  and  followed  him  meekly. 

The  climb  up  the  mountain  to  the  base  of  the  peak 
was  not  an  easy  one,  and  Carson  set  a  heart-breaking 
pace  with  the  deliberate  intent  to  walk  her  off  her  feet 
and  cure  her  of  a  desire  for  any  further  excursions. 
She  plodded  along  behind  him  in  silence,  grim,  de- 
termined and  all  but  breathless.  He  offered  no  assist- 
ance, and  she  would  not  have  accepted  it  if  he  had. 
Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  approached  the 
base  of  the  rock  pinnacle  that  rose  perpendicularly  two 
hundred  feet  above  them.  Accustomed  though  she  was 
to  mountain  climbing,  Betty  was  in  evident  distress. 
Carson  observed  it  and,  relenting  a  little,  suggested 
that  they  rest  a  bit  before  beginning  the  hazardous 
ascent. 

"I  don't  think  you  can  negotiate  it  in  those  boots," 
he  said.  "I  didn't  think  to  tell  you  to  bring  moccasins 
or  rubber-soled  shoes  for  this  part  of  it." 

Betty  made  no  reply,  but  sat  down  on  a  boulder, 
unlaced  her  boots,  threw  them  to  one  side  and  waggled 
her  toes  defiantly. 

"You're  a  real  little  sport,"  laughed  Carson.  Betty 
frowned.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  compliments. 
"But  the  view  is  really  worth  the  effort." 

"I  thought  it  would  be,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come," 
she  replied  stiffly.  "We  had  better  not  lose  any  more 
time." 

She  rose  and  started  along  the  trail  that  skirted 
the  base  of  the  cliff.  Suddenly  she  felt  herself  seized 


136  LONG  SWEETENING 

around  the  waist,  swung  off  her  feet  and  held  tight  in 
his  arms.  She  uttered  a  quick  sharp  cry  of  alarm,  and 
through  her  mind  flashed  the  repeated  warnings  of  her 
mother.  She  struggled  savagely,  viciously,  till  he  set 
her  on  her  feet  again. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  she  demanded. 

"You  had  a  very  narrow  escape." 

He  smiled  in  a  queer  way  and  pointed  to  the  trail. 
Almost  at  her  feet  lay  the  rattlesnake  he  had  trampled 
into  the  broken  rock.  Betty  sprang  away  from  it  in 
horror,  then  crumpled  down  by  the  side  of  the  trail, 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  laughed  and  cried  hys- 
terically. 

"Don't  be  alarmed.  It's  dead  now,  and  there  is 
no  danger,"  he  assured  her. 

"Oh!    You  frightened  me  so!"  she  cried. 

"I  didn't  mean  to,"  he  apologized.  "Naturally,  I 
didn't  think  I  was  expected  to  say:  'I  beg  pardon, 
but  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  permit  me  I'll  take 
you  away  from  the  rattlesnake  that  is  just  coiling  to 
strike  you.' " 

"Take  the  horrible  thing  away!  I  can't  bear  the 
sight  of  it !"  Betty  felt  that  she  really  owed  it  to  him 
to  shift  all  responsibility  for  her  fright  to  the  reptile. 

Carson  picked  it  up  with  a  stick  and  flung  it  into 
the  brush.  "It  is  not  safe  to  touch  even  a  dead  one," 
he  explained,  "for  the  slightest  abrasion  is  a  highway 
for  its  venom." 

"I  thought  they  always  gave  a  warning  rattle,"  she 
said. 


LONG  SWEETENING  137 

"Not  always.  This  one  had  recently  fed  and  was 
sluggish." 

"I  didn't  know  there  were  any  around  here.  This  is 
the  first  I  have  ever  seen." 

"You  will  never  find  them  in  the  timber,"  he  con- 
tinued, "but  wherever  there  is  open  country,  and  es- 
pecially around  broken  rock  piles,  look  out."  Betty, 
already  recovered,  got  to  her  feet  again.  "Better  let 
me  go  ahead,"  he  said.  "Here's  where  the  hard  work 
begins.  Be  careful  to  follow  my  footholds  exactly. 
This  rock  is  brittle  and  treacherous." 

He  searched  out  the  crevices  with  his  fingers  and 
toes,  testing  each  step  to  see  that  it  would  not  give 
way  and  send  a  shower  of  stones  upon  his  companion's 
head.  Betty,  drawing  quick  breaths  through  clenched 
teeth,  followed  close  after  him,  the  jagged  stones  cut- 
ting into  her  stockinged  feet.  There  were  points  where 
he  was  compelled  to  stretch  his  full  length  in  order 
to  reach  the  next  crevice,  and  she  was  unable  to  nego- 
tiate them  unassisted.  Then  he  would  cling  to  the  rock 
with  both  hands,  stretch  down  a  leg  for  her  to  grasp 
and  wait  for  her  to  scramble  up  beside  him. 

They  were  standing  on  a  narrow  ledge,  where  they 
had  paused  for  breath,  when  he  pointed  out  a  mottled 
patch  on  a  hillside  a  hundred  feet  below  them. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "It  looks  like  a  rag  car- 
pet." 

He  laughed.  "It's  a  carpet  of  rattlesnakes.  That 
pile  of  broken  rock  beyond  them  is  the  hatchery  that 
supplies  the  open  country  to  the  East  of  us.     They 


1 38  LONG  SWEETENING 

crawl  out  there  by  the  thousand,  from  five  inches  to 
five  feet  in  length,  to  bask  in  the  afternoon  sun." 

"They  ought  to  be  exterminated.    Can't  it  be  done  ?" 

"I  have  always  intended  coming  here  some  day  with 
a  stick  of  dynamite  and  blowing  up  their  den.  It  would 
yield  a  small  fortune  in  rattlesnake  skins  and  oil." 

"You  may  have  it,"  declared  Betty. 

The  pinnacle  of  the  peak  was  a  sheer  rock,  no 
broader  than  a  large  dining  table.  Standing  at  the 
base  of  it  upon  a  ledge  only  a  few  inches  wide,  Car- 
son could  just  reach  the  top  of  it.  He  grasped  the 
edge  with  both  hands,  drew  himself  up  and  clambered 
to  the  top.  Lying  prone  upon  it,  he  took  Betty's  hands 
and  lifted  her  up  beside  him.  All  of  her  toes  were 
through  her  stockings,  and  one  foot  was  bleeding. 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  not  be  worth  it  after  all,"  he  said. 
"You  have  hurt  yourself." 

"It's  nothing,"  replied  Betty. 

With  apparent  unconcern  she  sat  cross-legged  beside 
him,  carefully  hiding  her  feet  under  her  short  skirt 
and  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  panorama.  Spread  be- 
fore them  was  a  redwood  forest  that  stretched  away 
for  miles  and  miles  in  velvet  folds,  near  by  green 
and  vivid,  in  the  distance  violet  and  vague,  till  a  sel- 
vedge of  silver  fog  lying  over  the  sea  thirty  miles 
away  marked  the  horizon.  Betty  sat  entranced,  oblivi- 
ous of  her  hurt  feet  and  even  of  the  presence  of  her 
companion,  watching  the  sun  sink  lower  and  lower, 
the  violet  darkening  to  purple,  the  silver  edging  turn- 
ing to  gold. 


LONG  SWEETENING  139 

"You  should  see  it  in  the  early  morning/'  remarked 
Carson.  Recalled  by  his  voice  Betty  started  but  did 
not  turn.  "That  low  fog  creeps  up  into  every  canyon 
and  penetrates  every  nook  until  it  looks  like  a  silver 
sea  dotted  with  green  islets.  But  you  haven't  looked 
behind  you  yet." 

She  turned.  Instead  of  unbroken  forests  she  saw 
the  higher  ridges  of  the  Coast  Range,  gray  in  their 
chemissal  shrouds ;  lower  hills  growing  yellow  with  the 
advance  of  summer;  little  valleys  nestling  snugly  in 
the  bosom  of  mountains;  in  the  far  distance  a  snow- 
capped peak  glowing  under  the  good-night  kiss  of  the 
setting  sun;  and  directly  beneath  her  Sapphire  Lake 
purpling  in  the  shadows. 

"Is  there  anything  like  it  anywhere!"  exclaimed 
Betty. 

"Not  in  the  whole  world,"  he  declared.  "But  it's 
growing  late,"  he  warned  her,  "and  we  had  better  be 
going.    We  will  not  get  back  before  dark  as  it  is." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,  but  I  suppose  I'll  have  to," 
Betty  shoved  her  feet  out  before  her  and  looked  at 
them  disconsolately. 

"I  wish  you  could  wear  my  moccasins,"  he  said. 
"Can't  we  do  something  about  them?  Oh,  I  have  an 
idea!" 

He  drew  out  his  hunting  knife  and  before  she  could 
stop  him  he  was  cutting  the  legs  off  his  heavy  woolen 
socks  down  to  the  tops  of  his  moccasins.  Then  he  took 
the  bandanna  handkerchief  from  his  neck,  tore  it  into 
strings  and  ordered  her  to  bandage  her  feet.    She  sue- 


140  LONG  SWEETENING 

ceeded  with  some  suggestions  and  assistance  in  the  mat- 
ter of  tying  knots,  and  they  began  the  descent.  It  was 
infinitely  more  difficult  than  the  ascent  had  been,  and 
more  perilous.  Carson  went  first,  feeling  out  the 
crevices  with  his  toes,  grasping  Betty's  ankle  as  she  let 
herself  down  after  him  and  guiding  her  feet  for  her. 
It  was  trying  work,  for  the  slightest  slip  meant  death 
for  one  or  both  of  them. 

They  finally  reached  the  bottom  in  safety  and  rested 
a  few  moments  while  Betty  rearranged  the  bandages 
on  her  feet  and  put  on  her  walking  boots ;  and  it  was 
almost  dusk  when  they  started  on  their  return  to  the 
lake,  a  good  two  miles  distant.  Betty  started  off  pluck- 
ily,  but  she  could  not  conceal  her  limp.  Carson  ob- 
served it  and  his  conscience  smote  him. 

"Can't  I  help  you?"  he  asked.  "You're  lame." 

"No,  thanks;  I'm  all  right,"  she  replied. 

iWhen  they  reached  the  woods  on  the  lower  slope  of 
the  mountain  it  was  almost  dark.  Betty  stumbled  over 
a  root,  and  Carson  took  her  by  the  arm  to  help  her 
along,  but  she  pushed  him  aside. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  she  said  cheerily.  "I've 
been  bother  enough  already." 

"No  bother  at  all,  I  assure  you,"  declared  Carson. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  a  nuisance  I  must  be,  and  I  don't 
purpose  to  be  any  greater  one  than  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary. A  woman  shouldn't,  expect  a  man  to  be  both  a 
nurse  and  a  guide,  and  if  she  can't  keep  pace  with  him 
she  should  travel  alone." 

"That's  true,"  he  agreed,  a  little  too  readily. 


LONG  SWEETENING  141 

At  the  place  where  the  rifle  had  been  left  and  their 
paths  parted  Betty  said:  "I  am  very  grateful  to  you. 
Mr. " 

"Nobody,"  he  supplied. 

"Nubbidy,"  she  corrected  with  a  laugh.  "That  really 
sounds  much  better." 

"I  am,  glad  if  the  pleasures  have  compensated  for  the 
hardships  of  the  day." 

"I  am  grateful  for  being  permitted  to  tag  along  to- 
day, but  more  than  I  can  tell  you  for — for  saving  my 
life  again.  This  is  the  second  time  you  have  rescued 
me  from  danger  into  which  I  had  deliberately  walked." 

"The  third,"  thought  Carson.  "It's  nothing — mere 
chance,"  he  said. 

"I  do  hope  I  have  not  inconvenienced  you  greatly." 

It  occurred  to  Carson  that  the  day  had  not  passed  as 
disagreeably  as  he  had  anticipated.  "Not  in  the  least," 
he  declared. 

"I — I  don't  want  to  be  presumptuous,  but  I  do  wish 
you  would  show  me  more  of  the  things  I  have  never 
seen  here.  They  are  so  beautiful,  and  you  seem  to 
know  them  all." 

"I  should  be  glad  to,"  but  there  was  no  enthusiasm 
in  his  tone. 

"But  for  some  reason  you  don't  care  to?  Isn't  that 
true?    Would  it  interfere  with  your  plans?" 

"Not  materially,"  he  replied.  "I  wouldn't  permit 
anybody  or  anything  to  do  that." 

"iWell-^I^-I— "  Betty  was  perplexed.  "You  are  a 


142  LONG  SWEETENING 

stranger,  and  I  know  nothing  of  your  situation.  Per- 
haps, if  I  paid  you  for  your  time  and  trouble — " 

Carson  interrupted  her  with  a  laugh.  "I'm  neither  a 
professional  guide  nor  a  trained  nurse,"  he  said,  "but 
if  you  really  want  to  rough  it  a  little,  I  think  I  can 
find  time  to  show  you  a  few  things." 

"When?" 

"Whenever  you  wish." 

"Thank  you  so  much — but  don't,  if  it's  going  to  be  a 
bother." 

"It  won't  be." 

"Where  will  I  find  you?" 

"Oh,  down  at  the  lake  at  breakfast  time." 

"All  right.  Thanks  again.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Nubbidy." 

"She's  a  plucky  little  devil,"  mused  Carson  as  he 
made  his  way  to  his  cave,  "and  not  half  the  pest  I 
thought  she  would  be." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  ascent  of  Eagle  Peak  was  the  beginning  of  a 
series  of  excursions  under  Carson's  guidance.  If  their 
plans  required  an  early  start,  Betty  breakfasted  with 
him  by  the  lake,  taking  with  her  the  lunch  they  would 
require,  and  Mrs.  Arnold,  gradually  abandoning  all 
hope  of  procuring  the  promised  protection  of  game- 
wardens,  of  obtaining  her  husband's  consent  to  a  speedy 
departure  or  of  curbing  her  daughter's  adventurous 
spirit,  could  only  fold  her  hands  in  apprehensive  sub- 
mission and  wonder  at  the  caprices  of  an  appetite  that 
declined  a  hot  breakfast  and  demanded  an  enormous 
luncheon. 

Day  after  day  Betty  trotted  at  Carson's  heels  or  by 
his  side,  happy,  trustful  and  tireless,  and  each  excur- 
sion yielded  fresh  surprises,  new  delights  and  novel 
experiences.  To  Betty  his  knowledge  of  woodcraft 
was  astonishing,  his  familiarity  with  the  habits  of  wild 
things  amazing  and  the  acuteness  of  his  senses  start-' 
ling,  while  the  occasional  manifestation  of  a  sixth 
sense,  dulled  by  long  disuse,  seemed  almost  supernat- 
ural. Once,  when  he  had  drawn  her  into  quick  con- 
cealment, led  her  stealthily  to  a  spot  commanding  a 
view  of  the  canyon  below  and  pointed  to  the  still 
smouldering  ashes  of  an  abandoned  campfire,  she 
asked : 
"How  did  you  know  it  was  there  ?"  He  merely 

(143) 


144  LONG  SWEETENING 

shrugged.  "There  is  no  smoke,  and  you  could  not  have 
scented  it,  for  the  wind  is  in  the  wrong  direction." 

"I  just  felt  it,"  he  replied. 

"It's  uncanny !  You  must  have  Indian  blood  in  your 
veins,"  she  laughed. 

He  gave  her  one  swift,  half -contemptuous  glance 
from  beneath  contracted  brows.  "I  have!" 

Carson  translated  the  signs  of  the  trails,  hitherto 
meaningless  to  Betty,  but  now  revealing  pathetic  little 
tragedies  among  the  denizens  of  the  wilds.  He  in- 
terpreted the  different  cries  and  calls  of  the  various 
birds  and  animals  and  taught  her  to  imitate  them.  He 
showed  her  a  kangaroo  rat  that  stared  at  them  an  in- 
stant with  big,  soft  eyes,  then  went  bounding  away  on 
its  long  hind  legs;  the  "double-ender,"  a  harmless  lit- 
tle snake  that  in  full  flight  bluffs  an  enemy  with  its 
tail  marked  exactly  like  its  head;  the  great  mountain 
lizard  that  sends  its  detachable  tail  wriggling  away 
among  the  dried  leaves  to  create  a  diversion  that  will 
enable  it  to  escape  unobserved.  He  showed  her  how 
the  wild  broom  explodes  at  the  slightest  contact  and 
showers  the  marauding  bee  with  pollen,  and  how  the 
wild  oat,  at  the  first  touch  of  moisture,  rolls  itself  over 
and  over  until  it  plants  itself  in  a  crack  of  the  sun- 
dried  earth. 

Though  Betty  had  felt  assured  almost  from  the  be- 
ginning that  her  acquaintance  would  never  be  offen- 
sively presumptuous,  she  continued,  nevertheless,  to 
entertain  some  misgivings  concerning  the  inferences 
he  might  draw  from  her  surreptitious  unconvention- 


LONG  SWEETENING  145 

ality,  and  at  the  same  time  to  feel  a  little  apprehensive 
as  to  the  nature  of  his  expected  reaction.  So  far  as 
she  had  been  able  to  discover,  however,  he  simply  ac- 
cepted her  and  tolerated  her  as  he  would  any  other 
chance  acquaintance  of  the  hills,  without  curiosity, 
without  interest,  without  a  thought  or  a  care  as  to  the 
possibility  of  their  meeting  again.  He  seemed  as  in- 
different to  her  age,  sex,  station  and  even  personality 
as  to  the  social  attributes  of  the  young  gray-squirrel 
that  came  every  morning  to  beg  a  crust  of  'johnny- 
cake.  He  ignored  her  whims  and  even  her  expressed 
preferences  without  apology  or  excuse,  giving  her  to 
understand  by  his  manner  that  she  could  either  ac- 
company him  upon  his  terms  or  go  her  own  way. 

And  Carson  guided  the  conversation  as  he  did  Betty 
— according  to  the  custom  of  the  hills — abruptly  turn- 
ing it  whenever  she  sought  to  give  it  a  personal  direc- 
tion and  restricting  it  always  to  matters  of  immediate 
concern.  So  detached  and  impersonal  were  his  obser- 
vations that  she  felt  he  was  not  endeavoring  to  divert 
or  instruct  her,  but  simply  recalling  to  himself  the  half- 
forgotten  lore  of  the  woods. 

"How  long  has  it  been  since  you  lived  in  the  moun- 
tains ?"  she  once  asked  him  when  they  were  resting 
after  a  stiff  climb.  He  made  no  answer.  "You  seem  to 
be  tireless." 

"Mountaineers  always  walk  with  the  knees  slightly 
bent  and  their  legs  swinging  from  the  hips,"  he  said, 
"so  they  do  not  tire  easily.  And  when  they  want  to 
rest  quickly  and  thoroughly  they  dig  hip-holes,  stretch 


146  LONG  SWEETENING 

out  at  full  length  and  put  their  arms  above  their  heads. 
That  brings  immediate  and  complete  relaxation.,, 

"Why  have  you  never,  since  the  day  we  first  met, 
addressed  me  by  name?"  she  asked. 

"I  hadn't  found  it  necessary,"  he  evaded. 

"But  even  dogs  have  names,  Nubbidy."  She  smiled 
and  dimpled  "I  rather  like  to  feel  that  I  am  regarded 
as — some  one." 

He  remained  silent  till  he  was  ready  to  move  on, 
then:  "Let's  go,  Summins!" 

She  couldn't  decide  whether  it  was  meant  as  a  re- 
buke for  her  familiarity  or  an  acceptance  of  her  on 
terms  of  equality,  but  she  liked  it. 

Their  converse,  sparing  even  when  they  stretched 
themselves  on  a  high  mountain  top  or  in  some  secluded 
glen  for  their  mid-day  rest  and  repast,  was  marked  by 
long  silences — not  the  silences  of  understanding  and 
sympathy,  but  of  baffling  mood  and  abstraction.  Often 
as  he  lay  with  hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  puffing 
at  his  pipe,  Betty  found  herself  studying  him  in  an 
effort  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  man,  concealed  by 
the  masking  beard  and  unrevealed  by  the  brooding  eyes 
that  wandered  over,  through  or  beyond  her  without 
ever  seeming  to  touch  her,  even  when  for  an  instant 
they  rested  on  her.  Anxiety  over  the  state  of  his  health 
or  disappointment  over  a  business  reverse  would  not 
account  for  his  secrecy.  That  he  had  committed  crime 
or  suffered  disgrace  was  improbable.  There  seemed  to 
be  but  one  other  reasonable  explanation — he  had  been 
the  victim  of  a  distressing  love  affair.     But  whatever 


LONG  SWEETENING  147 

it  was,  she  was  certain  he  had  come  to  the  mountains 
to  forget. 

Betty  reflected  frequently  upon  the  strange  camara- 
derie that  had  germinated  from  a  chance  encounter 
under  such  unusual  circumstances,  but  without  analyz- 
ing its  development  or  speculating  upon  its  fruition. 
A  little  curiosity  and  a  necessity  of  diversion  had 
drawn  her  into  a  closer  acquaintance,  excused  by  its 
casual  and  transitory  nature;  while  the  yielded  privi- 
leges of  the  preserve,  carrying  no  guarantees  of  seclu- 
sion and  amply  compensating  him  for/ any  inconven- 
ience she  might  cause  him,  justified  its  continuance. 
The  impersonal  character  of  it,  which  had  first  re- 
lieved her  of  all  apprehension,  merely  added  to  the  free- 
dom and  the  charm  of  it.  But  their  constant  compan- 
ionship^ so  close  but  unintimate,  with  their  mutual  love 
of  nature  and  enjoyment  of  the  unsuspected  beauties 
he  revealed,  had,  despite  his  reticence  and  taciturnity, 
gradually  and  imperceptibly  developed  in  her  a  sense 
of  sympathy,  if  not  understanding,  more  profound  by 
reason  of  its  silence  and  restraint.  That  he  no  longer 
preferred  his  seclusion  to  her  society,  she  believed ;  that 
she  was  helping  him.  find  forgetfulness,  she  felt  as- 
sured; that  it  was  all  destined  to  end  as  suddenly  and 
definitely  as  it  had  begun,  and  in  time  become  merely 
a  reminiscence,  she  regarded  as  probable.  So,  inclined 
to  make  the  most  of  it  while  it  lasted,  it  was  she  who 
invariably  took  the  initiative  in  planning  their  meet- 
ings, but  followed  submissively  wherever  he  might 
lead. 


148  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  think  I  shall  go  to  church,  tonight,"  he  once  re- 
plied, when  asked  how  he  spent  his  evenings. 

"Where  and  at  what  time?" 

And  Betty  crawled  out  of  her  window  at  midnight 
to  paddle  noiselessly  across  the  lake  and  clamber  up 
through  the  dark  forest  to  the  summit  of  a  rock  on 
the  mountain  side.  Without  surprise  or  a  word  of 
greeting,  he  pointed  to  the  lake.  She  looked  and  saw^ 
it  only  as  she  had  seen  it  many  times  before,  its  sur- 
face gleaming  in  the  light  of  a  full  moon,  except  where 
the  black  shadows  of  the  pine  forest  pierced  or  blotted. 
And  then  she  saw  revealed  a  great  cathedral,  its  vesti- 
bule and  oriels  softly  illuminated,  its  slender  spires 
reaching  to  the  mirrored  sky.  She  stood  transfixed, 
breathless,  for  a  moment;  and  then  its  calm,  stupen- 
dous beauty  overwhelmed  her.  A  wave  of  emotion 
swept  over  her.  She  trembled  and  clenched  her  hands  as 
she  strained  her  eyes  to  catch  the  first  majestic  tones  of 
the  great  organ  that  she  felt  must  break  the  portentous 
and  palpitating  stillness.  When  Carson  opened  his 
lips  to  speak  she  grasped  his  arm  in  fierce  protest 
against  the  sacrilege. 

"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  His  marvels  to 
perform !" 

His  voice,  so  low,  so  sonorous  and  so  reverent, 
might  have  come  from  the  pulpit  of  that  cold  and  si- 
lent cathedral.  Her  fingers  relaxed,  slid  down  his 
arm,  grasped  his  hand  and  held  it  till  a  slight  pressure 
and  murmured  "good  night"  recalled  her. 

"Good  night,"  she  half  whispered.  "Peace  be  with 
you!" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Carson  had  consented  to  show  Betty  where  she 
could  find  some  grouse,  but  when  they  met  at  the  ap- 
pointed place  he  told  her  he  would  be  forced  to  disap- 
point her. 

"I  have  to  meet  the  stage  today  to  get  some  sup- 
plies," he  explained.  "The  grouse  will  have  to  wait 
for  another  time." 

"Where  will  you  meet  it?"  she  asked. 

"About  a  mile  from  Warm  Springs." 

"Expect  to  do  some  shooting?"  She  glanced  at  the 
big  Colts  he  had  never  carried  before. 

"I  thought  I  might  see  a  deer  somewhere  down  the 
trail." 

"Mayn't  I  go  with  you?" 

"No;  I  shall  have  to  hurry." 

"Then  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  set  Williams  to  work 
on  that  bee  tree,"  she  concluded. 

She  watched  him  as  his  long  swinging  strides  car- 
ried him  swiftly  down  the  trail  through  the  open  coun- 
try and  out  of  sight.  A  little  farther  on  he  flung  into 
the  brush  the  old  grain  sack  he  had  carried  over  his 
shoulder,  for  he  had  not  considered  it  necessary  to 
confess  to  Betty  that  the  urgently  needed  supplies  con- 
sisted of  the  sack  of  tobacco  he  knew  he  could  beg 
from  the  driver  of  the  stage. 

Under  Carson's  tutelage  Betty  had  acquired  a  store 
of  information  with  which  she  constantly  confounded 

(149) 


150  LONG  SWEETENING 

and  mystified  the  gamekeeper,  though  he  had  long  pro- 
fessed a  knowledge  of  woodcraft  unexcelled. 

"Williams,  do  you  think  you  could  get  us  some 
honey?"  she  asked  when  she  had  returned  to  the  bunga- 
low. "The  product  of  wild  lilac  and  red  clover  must  be 
delicious." 

"No'm;  don't  know's  I  could,"  he  replied. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  where  they  are  any." 

"There  are  plenty  of  bees  about."  She  pointed  to 
the  honeysuckle  that  almost  covered  the  old  log  cab- 
in. 

"Yas'm."  " 

"And  where  there  are  bees  there  must  be  honey." 

"Yas'm;  hit's  easy  to  see  where  they're  a-gettin  it, 
but  the  thing  is  to  find  out  where  they're  a-puttin'  it." 

"Can't  you  find  out?" 

Williams  scratched  his  head  and  grinned.  "Well, 
you  see,  I  ain't  never  learned  bee  talk." 

"Get  an  axe  and  something  to  smoke  them  out," 
Betty  ordered,  with  a  show  of  disgust  at  his  incompe- 
tence.    "I'll  get  a  bucket." 

He  watched  Betty  with  a  tolerant  smirk  while  she 
went  about  the  work  of  "pointing."  She  sprinkled  the 
backs  of  several  bees  with  flour  and  watched  them  shoot 
away  like  white  paper  wads,  taking  careful  note  of 
the  direction  of  their  flight. 

"Come  on." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  patch  of  clover  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  bungalow,   powdered  more  bees  and 


LONG  SWEETENING  1 5 1 

watched  them.  She  repeated  the  manoeuver  two  or 
three  times,  then  pointed  up  at  the  hollow  in  a  big 
black-oak  from  which  honey  was  dripping. 

"Well,  I  swan!"  exclaimed  Williams. 

"A  black  bear  has  beaten  us  to  it,"  observed  Betty, 
indicating  scratches  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree. 

"How  do  you  know  it  wasn't  a  grizzly?" 

"Every  one  knows  there  hasn't  been  a  grizzly  around 
here  for  years,  and  they  never  did  climb  trees." 

"Well,  it  mought  o'  been  a  cinnamon." 

"A  cinnamon  would  have  reached  higher  on  the 
tree  for  its  first  grip." 

"A  yearlin'  wouldn't  of,"  declared  Williams,  uncon- 
vinced. 

"Neither  would  a  yearling  cinnamon  leave  black 
hair  on  the  bark  when  it  slid  down." 

"Well,  you  are  shore  a  smart  un !"  he  admitted,  then 
alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  work:  "Hit's  too  bad  he 
got  all  the  honey." 

"Oh,  there's  plenty.  The  bear  got  only  what  it  could 
reach,  and  that  hollow  extends  down  several  feet." 

"But  yore  pa  give  strict  orders  not  to  cut  down  any 
trees." 

"You  won't  have  to.  Climb  up  and  chop  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hollow  where  the  honey  is  oozing  out, 
smoke  out  the  bees,  if  you  have  to,  and  bring  us  a 
bucket  of  it." 

Betty  left  him  to  his  work  and  spent  the  forenoon 
reading.  After  luncheon  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  made  no  definite  appointment  for  the  morrow. 


1 52  LONG  SWEETENING 

She  calculated  that  it  was  about  time  for  Carson's  re- 
turn, and  by  watching  the  Warm  Springs  trail  she 
would  probably  intercept  him.  She  took  her  shot-gun 
and  found  a  place  in  the  shade  of  a  big  live-oak  high 
on  the  mountain  side  that  gave  her  a  view  of  the 
trail  for  nearly  a  mile.  It  was  not  long  before  she 
spied  him  toiling  up  the  slope  toward  her.  As  she  got 
to  her  feet  to  go  meet  him,  she  saw  Williams  slip  be- 
hind a  tree  a  hundred  yards  below  her  and  watch  the 
stranger's  approach. 

At  the  first  trespass  notice  the  trail  forked,  one 
branch  leading  directly  North  to  the  lake,  the  other 
turning  sharply  to  the  East  to  avoid  the  preserve.  Car- 
son's route  lay  along  the  trail  through  the  Arnold 
property,  for  a  short  distance,  then  due  East.  Betty 
saw  him  walk  deliberately  past  the  warning  notice 
without  so  much  as  glancing  around,  and  knew  that 
Williams  would  catch  him  unless  he  were  warned. 
She  waved  her  handkerchief  frantically,  but  still  he 
did  not  look  up.  Then  she  fired  her  gun.  At  the  re- 
port Carson  stopped  abruptly,  looked  up  and  saw  her 
signalling  him  to  go  back.  At  the  same  moment  Wil- 
liams stepped  out  from  behind  the  tree  and  started  to- 
ward him.  Carson,  who  was  still  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
from  the  gamekeeper,  hastily  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
forks  of  the  trail,  took  the  West  branch  and  disap- 
peared in  the  first  ravine.  But  as  he  went  Betty  ob- 
served that  he  carried  no  burden,  and  wondered  what 
he  had  done  with  his  supplies. 


LONG  SWEETENING  153 

In  the  late  afternoon  Betty  paddled  up  the  lake  be- 
yond the  rock  point.  As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight 
of  the  bungalow  she  hallooed  and  waved  her  handker- 
chief. She  knew  that  Carson's  camp  must  be  some- 
where near  his  kitchen,  and  if  she  could  attract  his 
attention  he  would  understand  that  she  wanted  to  see 
him.  Within  five  minutes  she  heard  his  whistle — the 
call  of  the  sickle-bill  thrush — and  saw  him  break 
through  the  hazel  thicket  on  the  shore. 

"Well,  you  finally  got  back  all  right/'  she  said  as 
she  paddled  up  to  him. 

"After  an  extra  three-mile  tramp,"  he  said.  "I  had 
to  circle  back  to  the  South,  down  one  canyon  and  up 
another.  But  how  did  you  happen  to  be  there  at  the 
right  time?" 

"I  had  forgotten  to  make  arrangements  about  to- 
morrow— the  grouse  you  know — and  was  waiting  for 
you." 

"Meet  me  at  the  same  time  and  place.  If  you  don't 
see  me,  whistle.  I  must  keep  a  little  closer  under  cover 
now,  especially  along  the  main  trails." 

"All  right.  By  the  way,  you  didn't  get  your  sup- 
plies." 

"Well,  not  all.  I'll  get  the  rest  of  them  day  after 
tomorrow.  Be  on  time,  or  we  may  not  find  the  groutfe 
on  the  feeding  ground." 

"If  I'm  alive,"  she  promised. 

Betty  paddled  homeward,  and  as  she  neared  the  boat 
landing  heard  the  deep  baying  of  bloodhounds  and 
saw  three  armed  horsemen  approaching  by  the  Warm 


154  LONG  SWEETENING 

Springs  trail.  Mrs.  Arnold,  alarmed  by  the  formid- 
able appearance  of  the  invaders,  hurried  to  the  side 
veranda  and  called  to  Williams,  who  presently  emerged 
from  his  cabin.  By  the  time  Betty  had  fastened  her 
canoe  the  horsemen  had  dismounted  at  the  gate,  and 
one  of  them  approached  her. 

"Howdy,  Miss  Arnold,"  he  greeted  her.  She  did 
not  know  him,  so  merely  nodded  shortly.  "We  want  to 
camp  here  tonight."  His  tone  conveyed  a  decision 
rather  than  a  request. 

"Yes?  I'm  afraid  we  cannot  accommodate  you," 
she  replied. 

"We  don't  calculate  to  put  you  out  any.  My  name  s 
Burke.  I'm  the  Sheriff,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  replied  Betty.  "I  suppose  my  father 
spoke  to  you  about — " 

"Yes;  we  had  an  understanding,"  he  interrupted. 
"Seen  any  suspicious  characters  around  here  lately?" 

"None  more  suspicious  than  Williams  here,"  she 
replied  with  a  laugh,  as  the  gamekeeper  and  her  mother 
joined  them. 

"They're  annoying  us  constantly,"  declared  Mrs. 
Arnold,  assuming  that  the  Sheriff  had  come  to  pursue 
poachers.     "We  hardly  dare  leave  the  house." 

"Yeah,"  corroborated  Williams  eagerly.  "Seems  like 
all  the  hard  characters  in  the  country  come  this  way, 
an'  they's  no  tellin'  what  they  mought  do." 

"Oh,  Williams  is  simply  trying  to  frighten  us  away 
from  here,"  declared  Betty  impatiently.  "His  imagina- 
tion converts  every  traveler  into  a  desperado." 


LONG  SWEETENING  155 

"I've  lived  up  hyur  in  the  mountains  all  my  life,  an* 
I  guess  I  oughta  know  what  I'm  a-talkin'  about,"  he 
insisted.  "Why,  jes  this  afternoon — " 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  Betty  interrupted  hastily.  "I  go 
everywhere  around  here,  and  I've  never  seen  any  one 
who  showed  the  slightest  inclination  to  disturb  us. 
Once  in  a  while  some  hunter  gets  on  our — " 

"What  about  this  afternoon  ?"  interrupted  the  Sher- 
iff. 

"Why,  I  seen  a  feller  a-comin'  up  the  trail  over  yon, 
an'  I  stepped  behind  a  tree  an'  waited  fur  'im.  He  come 
past  the  first  trespass  notice,  an'  jest  then  Miss  Ar- 
nold— she  was  a-huntin'  over  there — fired  a  shot.  The 
feller  stopped  short,  an'  then  went  back  in  a  hurry.  I 
stood  behind  the  tree  an'  watched  for  about  fifteen  min- 
utes, to  make  sure  he  wasn't  a-comin'  back,  but  I  didn't 
see  'im  after  he  went  down  the  first  ravine  to'rds  the 
crick." 

"Can  you  give  me  a  description  of  him?" 

"Well,  he  was  over  two  hundred  yards  aWay,  but  I 
calcalate  he  was  about  six  foot  tall,  an'  weighed  mebbe 
a  hundred  an'  ninety  pound,  an'  wore  one  o'  them 
dungaree  suits  'thout  leggin's,  an*  a  brown  cap." 

"Didn't  he  have  long  whiskers  and  snaggly  teeth?" 
asked  Betty  maliciously. 

"Now't  you  mention  it,  it  'pears  like  he  did  ha^e 
short  black  whiskers." 

"Didn't  you  see  him?"  Burke  asked  Betty. 

"I  saw  a  man  going  down  the  trail." 

"Was  he  armed?" 


156  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  didn't  see  no  gun/'  said  Williams,  "but  he  mought 
o'  had  a  revolver." 

"Well,  that's  our  man,"  declared  the  Sheriff  posi- 
tively. "We'll  pick  up  the  trail  again  at  daylight.  Keep 
a  sharp  lookout  for  him  or  his  tracks — he's  wearing 
moccasins.  If  you  see  him,  take  him,  dead  or  alive.  If 
you  can't  get  close  enough  to  get  the  drop  on  him,  fire 
three  quick  rifle  shots  from  the  top  of  a  ridge,  and 
we'll  come  on  the  jump." 

"Why,  what  has  he  done?"  gasped  Betty,  now  thor- 
oughly alarmed  at  her  guide's  peril. 

"Robbed  a  stage." 

"When?    Where?" 

"This  morning — about  a  mile  from  Warm  Springs." 

"But  why  do  you  suspect  that  man?" 

"The  dogs  picked  up  the  trail  at  the  stage  road  and 
followed  it  straight  up  to  the  fork  of  the  trail  where 
you  saw  him.  We  followed  it  down  a  ravine  to  the 
bottom  of  the  main  canyon  and  there  lost  it.  I  guess 
he  took  to  the  water  to  throw  the  dogs  off  the  scent." 

"But  how  could  an  unarmed  man  hold  up  the  stage?" 

"He  had  a  revolver.  See  this  ?"  Burke  drew  a  folded 
grain  sack  from  his  coat  pocket  and  held  it  up  for  in- 
spection. "He  had  this  over  his  head.  See  the  eye- 
holes?" 

Betty  immediately  recognized  it  as  the  one  Carson 
had  carried  over  his  shoulder  in  the  morning,  for  she 
had  observed  the  small  holes  near  the  bottom  of  it. 
She  stood  staring  at  the  damning  evidence  while  Burke 
continued : 


LONG  SWEETENING  157 

"This  is  the  fellow  that  has  been  holding  up  that 
stage  regularly  and  getting  away  with  it,  but  we've 
never  had  bloodhounds  before,  and  this  time  we'll  get 
him." 

When  Betty  raised  her  eyes  she  was  surprised  to  see 
the  Sheriff  and  her  mother  slowly  receding  in  the  haze 
behind  them,  and  as  the  ground  beneath  her  feet  began 
to  sway  she  closed  her  eyes  and  stretched  a  groping 
hand  toward  them. 

"Why,  Miss  Arnold!  There's  nothing— "  and  the 
Sheriff's  voice  trailed  off  into  the  distance. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

With  the  spiking  of  Betty's  guns  Williams  renewed 
his  assaults  with  such  adroitness  and  vigor  that  only 
the  intervention  of  Sheriff  Burke,  the  presence  of  his 
armed  posse  and  the  absence  of  any  sort  of  convey- 
ance prevented  the  complete  rout  and  night  flight  of 
the  Arnold  menage.  Mrs.  Arnold's  hysterical  terror, 
augmented  by  the  shock  Betty  had  suffered,  was  only 
partially  allayed  by  the  Sheriff's  arguments,  persua- 
sions and  assurances,  and  it  was  not  till  the  gamekeep- 
er had  retired  to  his  cabin,  the  servants  had  ceased 
their  excited  whispering,  the  bloodhounds  were  whim- 
pering in  their  sleep  on  the  veranda  and  the 
Sheriff  was  snoring  in  the  spare  bed-room  that 
Mrs.  Arnold  would  leave  her  daughter's  bedside  to 
seek  repose.  Shaken  by  her  own  trepidation,  she  had 
felt  no  alarm  at  Betty's  mute  pallor  and  fixed  stare, 
but  only  satisfaction  that  her  daughter's  narrow  es- 
cape from  an  encounter  with  the  desperado  had  taught 
her  a  lesson  she  would  never  forget. 

Betty,  who  had  been  battling  for  hours  with  an  al- 
most irresistible  desire  to  scream  and  tear  the  bed 
clothing,  buried  her  face  in  her  pillow  and  wept  un- 
restrainedly till  she  could  weep  no  more.  Feverish 
and  exhausted  she  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling,  struggling 
to  collect  her  thoughts. 

This,  then,  was  the  solution  of  the  mystery !  Stripped 
of  the  mantle  of  romance  she  had  thrown  around  him, 

(158) 


LONG  SWEETENING  159 

the  brooding  lover  seeking  forgetfulness  in  solitude 
stood  revealed,  a  clever  highwayman  lurking  in  fa- 
miliar coverts.  And  she,  Betty  Arnold,  despite  every 
safeguard  that  a  millionaire  father  and  a  devoted 
mother  could  devise,  had  allowed  herself  to  be  lured, 
betrayed  into  close,  constant  and  secret  companionship 
with  a  common  thief !  No ;  she  had  not  been  lured ;  she 
had  walked  into  it,  as  she  had  into  the  deer  snare  and 
the  rattlesnake.  Worse — she  had  forced  herself  upon 
the  fellow  consciously,  deliberately,  wilfully,  disre- 
garding her  mother's  frequent  admonitions,  his  obvi- 
ous aversion  and  the  first  principles  of  common  de- 
cency !  But  why  hadn't  he  shown  her  as  much  consid- 
eration as  an  ordinary  rattlesnake  would,  and  either 
warned  or  avoided  her? 

Covered  with  shame,  humiliation  and  remorse  she 
relapsed  into  another  paroxysm  of  tears  and  sobs,  sud- 
denly checked  by  an  illuminating  thought.  Wasn't  it 
possible  that  the  Sheriff,  upon  whose  testimony  she 
had  convicted  him  without  a  hearing,  had  blundered? 
Criminality,  she  had  read,  was  attributable  to  want  of 
intelligence,  and  it  seemed  preposterous  that  one  so 
well-informed,  so  obviously  qualified  to  move  in  any 
circle  of  society  and  achieve  success  in  any  pursuit 
would  deliberately  choose  a  life  of  crime  and  outlawry. 
Cunning  criminals  did  not  go  about  their  work  open- 
ly, but  with  the  utmost  secrecy  and  caution.  After 
their  first  encounters  he  could  easily  have  avoided  her 
and  remained  in  hiding,  unknown  and  unsuspected.  In 
any  event  he  could  have  gone  any  day  and  committed 


160  LONG  SWEETENING 

the  crime  without  confiding  his  plans  to  her.  And  if  he 
had  done  it,  why  should  he,  knowing  there  would  be  an 
immediate  pursuit,  unwarily  expose  himself  to  Wil- 
liams's observation,  answer  her  signals  and  make  an 
appointment  to  meet  her  on  an  open  trail  to  go  grouse 
hunting?  He  would  certainly  have  realized  the  peril 
of  it,  even  if  he  felt  assured  that  she  would  not  betray 
him. 

But  how  could  the  evidence  against  him  be  explained 
away — his  reticence,  his  secrecy,  his  familiarity  with 
the  country;  his  expressed  intention  to  intercept  the 
stage  a  mile  from  Warm  Springs,  though  it  would 
have  been  easier  to  go  directly  to  that  resort;  the  re- 
volver he  had  never  carried  before;  the  supplies  he  did 
not  get;  the  tell-tale  sack,  carried  in  the  morning  and 
discarded  when  it  had  served  its  purpose;  the  trail 
followed  by  trained  bloodhounds  from  the  scene  of 
the  robbery  to  the  point  where  she  had  seen  him  dis- 
appear; and  his  words  at  their  last  meeting:  "I  must 
keep  a  little  closer  under  cover  now"  ?  There  seemed 
to  be  no  question  of  his  guilt. 

Betty  reviewed  every  detail  of  their  association  from 
their  first  meeting  to  their  last  parting,  searching  for 
something  that  might  excuse,  explain  or  extenuate  his 
offense  and  her  indiscretion.  A  sudden  and  unaccount- 
able impulse  or  a  mental  derangement  from  his  recent 
illness  might  explain  a  single  offense,  but  the  repeti- 
tion of  it  at  frequent  intervals  indicated  the  deliberate 
choice  of  a  criminal  career.  She  recalled  with  a  thrill 
of  satisfaction  numerous  heroes  of  fiction  who  had 


LONG  SWEETENING  161 

been  driven  into  outlawry  by  the  cruel  injustice  of 
organized  society.  Possibly  that  might  account  for  his 
criminality,  but  it  could  not  relieve  her  from  the  con- 
sequences of  her  own  transgressions. 

Betty  lay  dry-eyed  and  sleepless  pondering  her  sit- 
uation. How  could  she  ever  extricate  herself  from  the 
horrible  predicament  into  which  her  childish  perver- 
sity and  her  romantic  folly  had  plunged  her?  Should 
she  go  at  once  to  her  mother,  tell  her  all  and  beg  her 
forgiveness,  her  counsel  and  her  advice  ?  She  could  en- 
dure reproaches,  for  she  knew  she  had  earned  them, 
but  she  could  not  inflict  suffering  so  undeserved.  Should 
she  wait  till  morning,  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  the 
Sheriff  under  a  pledge  of  secrecy  and  earn  immunity 
by  giving  timely  and  valuable  information?  The 
thought  of  betraying  even  a  criminal  was  too  repug- 
nant. Besides,  his  capture  was  assured  without  her  in- 
tervention, and  there  was  no  certainty  that  the  Sheriff 
would  guarantee  secrecy  and  immunity,  for  he  might  be 
forced  to  use  her  as  a  witness  in  order  to  procure  a  con- 
viction. And  if  she  informed  on  the  bandit,  he  would 
surely  retaliate  by  making  full  disclosures  concerning 
their  relations.  She  could  almost  see  the  flaming  head- 
lines in  the  San  Franciso  dailies :  "Millionaire's  Daugh- 
ter Pal  of  Daring  Highwayman,"  followed  by  column 
upon  column  of  the  story,  exaggerated  and  distorted 
into  vulgarity,  crammed  with  imaginary  details  and 
stuffed  with  damning  insinuation  and  innuendo. 

A  last  desperate  expedient  occurred  to  her.  She 
might  go  to  him  in  the  early  morning — she  could 


162  LONG  SWEETENING 

surely  find  him  at  breakfast  beside  the  lake — warn  him 
of  his  peril,  assure  him  that  she  had  respected  the  con- 
fidence he  had  reposed  in  her,  and  beg  him  to  be  equally 
magnanimous.  He  would  certainly  refrain  from  mak- 
ing disclosures  that  could  not  serve  him  and  would  ut- 
terly ruin  her.  Then  it  flashed  upon  her  that  he  had 
cunningly  plotted  the  whole  thing,  had  deliberately 
snared  her,  either  to  take  her  and  hold  her  as  a  hostage 
or  to  force  her  father  under  threats  of  exposure  to 
come  to  his  defense  in  case  of  capture.  The  fact  that 
he  had  beguiled  her  always  into  taking  the  initiative 
would  make  it  the  more  damning. 

But  he  might  escape!  Sheriffs  were  not  infallible, 
and  this  man's  cunning  was  incredible.  He  was  a  mas- 
ter of  woodcraft,  knew  every  nook  and  cranny  of  those 
hills  and  with  the  dogs  once  off  the  scent,  could  lie  for 
days  undiscovered  on  the  summit  of  Eagle  Peak  or  in 
the  shelter  of  his  conservatory.  But  his  escape  would 
be  merely  a  reprieve.  This  thing  would  be  left  hang- 
ing over  her  head,  giving  her  no  rest,  no  peace,  until 
his  ultimate  capture  precipitated  it.  But  he  might  be 
killed !  She  seized  the  thought  eagerly,  hopefully,  then 
shuddered  at  the  horror  of  it,  vividly  depicted  on  her 
imagination. 

While  Betty  watched  and  waited  for  the  dawn — the 
dawning  of  a  day  that  would  bring  death  to  him  or 
disgrace  to  her — she  suffered  all  the  mental  tortures 
of  a  condemned  man  on  the  eve  of  his  execution, 
scarcely  daring  to  hope  for  an  interposition  of  Provi- 
dence that  would  grant  even  a  brief  respite.  At  the 


LONG  SWEETENING  163 

first  sign  of  its  approach,  the  thump  of  the  Sheriff's 
feet  on  his  bed-room  floor,  she  started  up  in  terror, 
listened  till  she  heard  him  puffing  and  splashing  over 
his  ablutions,  then  sank  back  on  her  pillow  with  a 
moan  of  anguish.  She  listened  while  the  men  made 
hurried  prepartions  for  the  gruesome  work  of  the  day, 
and  suffered  a  nauseous,  paralyzing  chill  when  she 
heard  them  laughing  over  their  breakfast.  From  be- 
hind her  window-shade  she  watched  the  man-hunters 
ride  along  the  trail  at  the  West  end  of  the  lake,  then 
turned  her  eyes  to  the  point  of  rocks  behind  which  the 
hunted  wretch  was  probably  reeling  in  a  trout. 

Betty  remained  in  bed  till  her  mother's  irritating 
solicitude  and  depressing  apprehensions  drove  her  to 
the  lake  and  her  canoe  and  a  refuge  in  the  shade  of 
overhanging  laurels.  As  the  time  he  had  fixed  for 
the  morning's  meeting  approached,  her  hopeless  depres- 
sion and  lassitude  gave  way  to  the  feverish  restlessness 
of  one  who  finds  a  fixed  habit  suddenly  interrupted. 
She  glanced  at  her  watch  with  increasing  frequency, 
one  moment  assuring  herself  that  he  had  neither  in- 
tended to  keep  the  appointment  nor  expected  her  to, 
and  the  next  convincing  herself  that  he  would  not  only 
be  awaiting  her  but  would  be  vexed  at  her  failure  to 
keep  faith  with  him.  He  had  always  kept  faith  with 
her,  and  how  she  had  trusted  him !  She  blushed  with 
shame  when  she  recalled  the  reflections  of  the  night 
and  the  Mephistophelian  designs  she  had  attributed  to 
him.  Force  of  circumstances  may  have  aroused  the 
primitive  instinct  to  prey  upon  his  fellow  men,  but  it 


i64  LONG  SWEETENING 

had  not  impaired  his  refined  sense  of  chivalry.  It  may 
have  created  a  bandit,  but  it  had  left  a  man.  The  least 
that  she  owed  him  was  a  sense  of  appreciation ;  and  it 
should  be  expressed.  She  would  go  to  him;  she  still 
had  time.  But  she  might  be  seen  with  him.  She  could 
at  least  scribble  a  note,  attract  his  attention,  leave  it 
where  he  could  get  it  without  exposing  himself,  and 
flee.  But  she  could  not  go  as  she  was,  in  a  flimsy  morn- 
ing-gown and  high-heeled  slippers,  neither  could  she 
return  to  the  house  for  suitable  clothing,  for  her 
mother  would  never  let  her  go.  Why  hadn't  she  gone 
in  the  early  morning,  when  she  could  have  found  him 
at  breakfast  ?  Now  it  was  impossible.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  wait. 

As  the  time  passed  she  pictured  him  lying  in  some 
shady  covert  watching  for  her  coming,  and  wondered 
what  his  thoughts  would  be  when  she  did  not  appear. 
Would  he  be  disappointed  ?  Or  would  he  attribute  her 
absence  to  fear  or  loathing,  and  be  resentful?  He 
surely  could  not  have  intended  to  go  grouse  hunting, 
knowing  that  the  discharge  of  a  gun  would  inevitably 
attract  immediate  attention  and  pursuit.  He  must 
have  made  the  appointment  merely  to  tell  her  good- 
bye; and  his  daring,  not  only  in  trusting  her,  but  in 
delaying  his  flight  when  in  such  peril,  excited  her  ad- 
miration. 

In  the  late  afternoon  she  heard  a  distant  rifle  shot 
and  waited  in  an  agony  of  suspense  till  at  dusk  she  saw 
the  posse  returning  with  drooping  horses  and  exhaust- 
ed dogs.  She  hurried  to  the  gate  to  meet  them  and  ask 


LONG  SWEETENING  165 

for  news  of  the  chase,  and  could  hardly  conceal  her 
joy  when  she  learned  that  it  had  been  fruitless.  The 
bloodhounds  had  found  the  trail  and  lost  it  again,  the 
Sheriff  explained.  The  bandit  had  apparently  doubled 
back  toward  the  scene  of  the  robbery.  But  men  and 
dogs  were  patroling  the  stage  road  to  the  South,  the 
railroad  to  the  East  and  the  trails  to  the  West;  and 
look-outs  had  been  posted  on  the  tops  of  the  surround- 
ing mountains  with  binoculars,  to  watch  for  the  tell- 
tale smoke  of  a  campfire  or  a  glimpse  of  the  fugitive 
skulking  along  the  lower  trails.  A  cordon  had  been 
drawn  around  him  and  his  capture  was  only  a  matter 
of  a  few  hours. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Carson  lay  in  a  manzanita  thicket  on  the  hillside 
watching  the  Warm  Springs  trail  down  which  the  Sher- 
iff and  his  men  had  ridden  a  couple  of  hours  before, 
and  along  which  Betty  must  pass  to  keep  their  appoint- 
ment. Glancing  at  his  watch  he  noted  that  it  was  fifteen 
minutes  past  the  hour  and  wondered,  for  always  since 
that  first  tardiness  she  had  been  punctual  to  the  minute. 
Probably  her  watch  had  gone  wrong.  He  would  give 
her  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  no  longer,  and  he  laid 
his  open  timepiece  on  the  ground  beside  him.  While 
waiting  he  heard  the  baying  of  hounds  in  a  distant 
canyon  and  concluded  some  one  must  be  running  a 
bear  or  coyote,  for  it  was  unlawful  to  hunt  deer  with 
dogs.  When  the  allotted  time  had  passed,  he  picked 
up  his  watch,  snapped  it  shut  with  impatience,  and  then 
decided  to  wait  a  few  moments  longer.  It  was  possible 
that  something  unforeseen  and  unavoidable  had  de- 
layed her,  and  she  might  appear  at  any  moment  now. 
When  the  half  hour  he  had  already  allowed  her  had 
stretched  itself  into  an  hour,  he  was  irritated.  He 
would  wait  no  longer  now,  and  not  a  minute  in  the  fu- 
ture. If  she  couldn't  be  on  time  she  would  have  to  get 
along  without  him.  As  he  climbed  the  hill  toward  his 
cave,  he  glanced  back  at  frequent  intervals,  hoping  he 
might  be  a  spectator  of  her  discomfiture  and  disap- 
pointment. He  stopped  at  the  top  to  rest  for  a  moment 
and  scanned  the  half  mile  of  trail  that  lay  in  view,  then 

(166) 


LONG  SWEETENING  167 

plunged  down  through  the  forest  on  the  other  side. 
All  right.  She  would  probably  come  hoo-hoo-ing  up 
the  lake  in  her  canoe  before  long,  but  she  would  get 
no  answer;  and  if  she  expected  to  find  him  at  breakfast 
time,  she  would  be  disappointed.  Her  delinquency  fur- 
nished a  good  excuse  for  avoiding  her  in  the  future, 
and,  any  way,  it  would  teach  her  a  lesson. 

Having  no  plans  for  the  day  Carson  loitered  about 
his  cave,  reading  a  little,  fidgeting  a  great,  deal,  smok- 
ing constantly,  and  scanning  the  lake  frequently  with 
malicious  expectancy.  The  hours  dragged  intermin- 
ably. It  was  just  like  a  woman  to  spoil  a  man's  whole 
day  without  compunction  or  even  explanation — and  his 
dinner,  too,  for  he  had  counted  on  a  young  grouse 
broiled  on  pine  charcoal.  When,  in  the  late  afternoon, 
she  had  not  appeared,  he  wondered  if  she  were  ill,  or 
had  met  with  an  accident.  Why  hadn't  he  thought 
of  that  before  and  spared  himself  all  that  exasperation? 
He  seized  his  cap,  hurried  away  from  his  cave,  stole 
through  the  pine  forest  to  Cathedral  Rock,  and  search- 
ed the  bungalow  and  its  surroundings  through  his 
glasses.  He  saw  Mrs.  Arnold  and  the  servants,  and 
there  was  the  gamekeeper  sitting  on  the  veranda  with 
a  gun  beside  him,  when  he  should  have  been  drowsing 
in  a  laurel  grove  half  a  mile  way.  He  watched  for 
half  an  hour,  and  though  he  saw  no  sign  of  Betty  he 
observed  a  bustle  and  stir,  involving  all  but  Williams, 
not  at  all  in  keeping  with  the  usual  afternoon  tor- 
pidity, from  which  he  concluded  that  something  un- 
usual must  have  happened — and  to  her.     He  should 


168  LONG  SWEETENING 

have  known  Summins  would  have  met  him  if  it  had 
been  possible,  and  he  felt  a  little  conscience-smitten  at 
having  convicted  her  without  a  hearing.  Hadn't  she 
assured  him  that  she  would  be  there,  if  she  were  alive? 
Of  course,  it  couldn't  be  as  bad  as  that ;  but  what  could 
have  happened? 

Carson  had  ample  time  for  reflection  during  and 
after  his  dinner  of  broiled  cotton-tail.  He  was  sur- 
prised to  discover  how  swiftly  the  days  had  flown.  And 
they  had  been  very  pleasant,  for  Summins  had  been  a 
fine  little  companion,  in  fact,  the  only  kind  he  could 
have  tolerated ;  and  he  would  miss  her  during  the  last 
week  of  his  stay  there.  Then  it  dawned  upon  him  that 
his  irritation  of  the  morning  had  been  due  to  disap- 
pointment From  an  annoyance  she  had  developed  in- 
to a  habit.  Well,  he  could  easily  cure  himself  of  it — 
much  more  easily  than  he  could  give  up  his  pipe.  What 
did  she  mean  in  his  life  after  all?  Nothing  whatever. 
It  was  her  father  that  concerned  him.  John  Arnold's 
daughter,  like  John  Arnold's  trout  and  rabbits,  was 
purely  incidental,  and  the  satisfaction  he  had  found  in 
her  company  was  of  no  more  importance  than  his  en- 
joyment of  the  fish  and  game.  She  had  allowed  him  to 
remain  on  the  preserve,  and  he  had  permitted  her  to 
share  his  expeditions,  so  they  were  quits.  There  was 
nothing  in  their  association  that  constrained  him  to  re- 
lax in  his  hostility  toward  her  father — absolutely  noth- 
ing. In  fact,  he  had  been  sufficiently  lenient  in  his 
dealings  with  one  who  had  deliberately  and  continually 
compromised  herself.  But  she  had  trusted  him,  and, 


LONG  SWEETENING  169 

anyway,  he  was  not  making  war  on  women  and  chil- 
dren. 

But  what  could  have  happened  to  Summins  ?  he  ask- 
ed himself  over  and  over  again,  not  that  it  really  mat- 
tered, but  it  was  puzzling  and  piqued  his  curiosity.  Per- 
haps some  urgent  message  had  called  them  back  to 
San  Francisco,  and  they  were  preparing  for  a  hurried 
departure.  Still,  that  would  not  account  for  her  non- 
appearance or  neglect  to  notify  him.  Then,  with  a  start 
of  fear  that  quickly  changed  to  anger,  it  flashed  upon 
him  that  Arnold's  downfall  may  have  been  accomplish- 
ed without  his  instrumentality.  Was  he  fated  to  be 
cheated  of  his  vengeance,  just  when  it  was  within  his 
grasp  ?  Still,  this  summons  might  be  only  forewarning 
of  its  imminence,  and  he  might  yet  be  in  time  to  take 
a  controlling  hand.  There  was  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost. 

Almost  frantically  Carson  began  gathering  up  his 
belongings.  The  morning  train  would  leave  Potterville 
at  five-thirty,  and  it  was  not  quite  eight.  He  could 
easily  make  the  twenty-one  miles  on  his  own  feet  in 
six  hours,  even  at  night.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better 
to  verify  his  surmises  and  relieve  his  suspense  before 
he  started.  He  could  approach  the  bungalow  unob- 
served by  its  occupants  and  get  some  clew  through  the 
conversation  of  the  servants,  or  hail  Williams  under 
cover  of  darkness  and  the  pretext  of  getting  directions 
to  Warm  Springs.  He  snatched  his  cap,  tightened  his 
moccasins  and  hurried  down  to  the  lake,  following  the 
trail  along  the  East  side  of  it  till  the  bungalow  lights 


170  LONG  SWEETENING 

came  in  view,  and  then  circling  around  through  the 
forest  back  of  it.  To  his  relief  he  found  the  garage 
empty  and  no  signs  of  any  other  conveyance.  He  was 
moving  stealthily  toward  the  bungalow  when  a  loud 
snort  in  the  darkness  only  a  few  feet  away  startled 
him.  He  was  finally  able  to  make  out  three  tethered 
horses  watching  him  with  cocked  ears,  and  on  a  log 
nearby  were  three  Mexican  saddles.  He  crept  to  the 
edge  of  the  forest  and  peered  toward  the  bungalow 
only  a  few  feet  away.  Suddenly  a  frenzied  pack  of 
yelping  hounds  sprang  from  the  veranda  and  strained 
at  their  leashes  to  get  at  him.  He  barely  had  time  to 
jump  behind  a  tree,  when  a  man  stepped  out  the  door 
and  gruffly  ordered  the  dogs  to  keep  quiet;  and  as  he 
stole  away  into  the  underbrush  he  could  hear  them 
whimpering  in  their  eagerness  to  pull  him  down. 

It  was  worse  than  useless  to  attempt  any  further  in- 
vestigation under  the  conditions.  Anyway,  he  was 
convinced  that  the  Arnolds  were  not  preparing  to  de- 
part. Either  a  party  of  the  banker's  friends  had  come 
up  for  a  bear  hunt,  or  these  were  the  long-expected 
gamewardens.  But  why  hadn't  Summins  warned  him 
of  their  arrival  ?  It  didn't  occur  to  him  that  his  resent- 
ment at  her  lack  of  loyalty  was  at  all  inconsistent,  but 
he  was  able  to  explain  it  to  his  own  satisfaction.  Wil- 
liams had  seen  her  signal  him,  and  she  was  in  dis- 
grace— possibly  in  confinement,  but  certainly  under 
surveillance.  Poor  Little  Summins!  Well,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  about  it,  but  if  they  intended  to 
chase  him  off  the  place  he  would  give  them  a  run. 


LONG  SWEETENING  171 

Carson  had  just  finished  dressing  after  his  swim  the 
next  morning  when  the  deep  baying  of  hounds  up  the 
lake  attracted  his  attention.  From  the  way  they  gave 
cry  he  knew  they  were  on  a  fresh  scent  and  wondered. 
He  slipped  out  to  the  point  of  rocks  and  peered  over. 
They  were  running  on  the  trail  he  had  followed  the 
night  before,  and  three  horsemen  with  guns  across 
their  saddles  were  following  at  breakneck  speed. 

"By  George!  They're  after  me!"  he  muttered,  and 
he  realized  it  would  require  quick  action  to  escape 
them. 

He  snatched  a  can  of  cayenne  pepper  as  he  ran 
through  his  outdoor  kitchen  and  dashed  up  the  moun- 
tain that  flanked  the  Hog's  Back.  At  the  summit  he 
paused  only  long  enough  to  sprinkle  cayenne  on  the 
trail  leading  to  his  cave,  then  went  on  down  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  mountain.  At  the  bottom  of  the  canyon 
he  doubled  back  and  waded  in  the  rivulet  to  the  base 
of  the  Hog's  Back.  Carefully  peppering  his  trail  he 
clambered  up  the  Southern  face  of  the  cliff  by  the 
steps  he  had  cut  years  before  and  crawled  through  the 
concealed  entrance  to  his  cave.  When  he  peered 
through  the  chaparral  screen  at  the  Northern  end  his 
pursuers  had  reached  his  kitchen  and  found  his  coffee 
boiling  on  the  fire.  The  dogs,  confused  for  the  mo- 
ment by  the  cross  trails,  were  running  hither  and 
thither,  baying  excitedly,  while  the  men  were  investi- 
gating the  camp. 

Carson  could  catch  only  occasional  glimpses  of  them 
through  the  thick  foliage,  so  he  got  his  glasses,  wonder- 


172  LONG  SWEETENING 

ing  at  the  same  time  if  he  knew  any  of  them.  The 
dogs  at  last  found  the  fresh  scent  leading  up  the  hill 
and  dashed  away,  yelping  savagely.  One  of  the  men 
followed  directly  on  foot,  while  the  others,  leading 
his  horse,  labored  up  the  mountain  by  a  more  circuit- 
ous route.  At  one  time  they  were  all  within  two  hun- 
dred yards  of  him,  but  he  could  get  no  clear  view  of 
their  feaures,  half  concealed  under  their  broad-brim- 
med hats.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  how  easy  it  would 
be  from  his  ambuscade  to  pick  them  off  with  a  rifle, 
and  yokels  who  entered  the  Arnold  service  as  zeal- 
ously as  though  poaching  were  a  capital  offense  really 
deserved  nothing  better.  He  watched  till  they  disap- 
peared over  the  ridge,  and  then  from  the  other  end  of 
his  cave  until  he  was  satisfied  that  his  ruse  had  led 
them  far  afield  to  the  South.  Then  he  settled  down 
disgustedly  to  a  breakfast  of  cold  canned  goods  and 
pondered  the  latest  developments. 

Neither  the  loss  of  his  cooking  utensils  nor  the  con- 
fiscation of  the  few  supplies  kept  at  the  spring  would 
embarrass  him,  for  he  could  make  coffee  in  a  tin  can 
and  broil  bacon  on  a  forked  stick;  and  fortunately  he 
had  ordered  butter  and  condensed  cream  from  the  stage 
driver.  And  this  was  the  day  he  had  promised  to  meet 
the  stage  to  receive  them.  The  fact  that  his  pursuers 
were  operating  in  the  territory  he  would  be  compelled 
to  traverse  only  rendered  the  undertaking  more  at- 
tractive by  reason  of  its  difficulties.  To  be  appre- 
hended and  identified  as  a  trespasser  on  Arnold's  pre- 
serve was  unthinkable,  but  he  was  confident  of  his 


LONG  SWEETENING  173 

ability  to  outwit  these  blundering  townsmen.  He  still 
had  a  couple  of  hours  to  spare,  and  in  a  spirit  of  brava- 
do he  decided  to  go  around  by  the  bungalow  and  try 
to  get  a  few  words  with  Summins.  The  temporary  ab- 
sence of  the  men  and  dogs  and  the  habitual  somno- 
lence of  Williams  rendered  it  ridiculously  easy.  If  he 
could  attract  her  attention  by  the  bird  call  they  had 
employed,  she  could  undoubtedly  slip  out  into  the  forest 
for  a  few  minutes.  And  Summins  would  doubtless  be 
glad  to  see  him  again  and  have  a  laugh  over  the  wild- 
goose  chase  he  had  given  the  gamewardens. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Carson  clambered  up  among  the  tall  suckers  that 
screened  the  trunk  of  the  giant  redwood  in  which 
years  before  he  had  constructed  a  refuge.  He  crawled 
into  the  opening,  felt  for  the  steps  and  descended  into 
its  capacious  hollow.  By  the  flare  of  a  match  he  saw 
that  it  remained  unchanged,  except  that  the  wood-rats 
had  carried  away  the  jerked  venison  with  which  he 
had  provisioned  it,  and  time  had  rusted  the  vessels 
in  which  he  had  stored  water.  He  climbed  back  to 
the  opening,  found  a  comfortable  perch,  parted  the 
dense  foliage  and  peered  out.  Williams,  with  his  gun 
beside  him,  was  sitting  on  the  veranda  of  the  bungalow 
scarcely  seventy-five  yards  away.  Within  a  few  min- 
utes a  slender  girl  in  filmy  white,  bareheaded  and  carry- 
ing a  book,  appeared  on  the  veranda,  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment as  though  in  doubt,  and  then,  to  Carson's  annoy- 
ance, strolled  languidly  toward  his  hiding-place.  If 
she  intended  to  pass  the  forenoon  reading  in  one  of 
the  hammocks  not  twenty  feet  away,  he  would  not  only 
have  no  opportunity  of  conversing  with  Betty,  but 
would  have  to  choose  between  the  alternatives  of  re- 
maining a  prisoner  or  revealing  his  presence  and 
frightening  her  into  hysterics.  He  was  meditating  a 
hasty  retreat,  trusting  to  the  dense  undergrowth  and 
crackling  of  the  dried  leaves  under  her  light  tread  for 
concealment,  when  something,  he  knew  not  what,  struck 
a  chord  of  recognition  in  his  mind.     He  stared  at  her 

(174) 


LONG  SWEETENING  175 

in  amazement  as  she  approached,  unconsciously  com- 
paring the  Summins  he  knew  so  well  with  the  Betty 
Arnold  he  now  saw  for  the  first  time. 

Summins,  in  her  heavy  tweed  hunting-suit  and  big 
boots,  was  plump  and  short — only  an  inch  or  two  over 
five  feet  in  height.  Beneath  the  broad  brim  of  her 
deep-crowned,  felt  hat,  drawn  low  over  her  forehead, 
he  recalled  a  straggling  lock  of  blonde  hair,  blue  eyes 
with  a  decided  snap  to  them,  and  a  piquante,  rather 
boyish  face  that  was  inclined  to  dimple  mischievously; 
but  if  there  had  been  anything  more  than  a  promise 
of  feminine  allure  about  her,  he  had  never  observed 
it.  This  Betty  Arnold  was  as  different  as  daylight 
from  darkness,  and  as  his  eyes  traveled  from  the  mass 
of  glowing  hair  piled  high  on  her  head  to  the  wonder- 
fully small  feet  encased  in  black  satin  slippers,  he 
wondered  that  he  had  recognized  her  at  all.  A  certain 
dignity  in  her  carriage  seemed  to  make  her  older, 
taller,  slenderer  and  infinitely  more  graceful,  an  im- 
pression that  was  heightened  by  the  white  filmy  skirt 
that  clung  to  her  shapely  ankles.  And  what  hair  she 
had!  Where  it  was  touched  by  the  morning  sun  it 
gleamed,  not  brilliantly,  but  with  the  soft  pure  glow 
of  California  gold;  and  little  truant  tendrils  that  the 
breeze  had  loosened  clung  rebelliously  to  her  full- 
curved  throat.  Her  eyes  seemed  darker  than  he  re- 
membered them,  and  the  shadows  beneath  them  lent  a 
wistfulness  that  he  never  had  seen  before.  Though 
her  face  and  neck  showed  a  faint  trace  of  brown  tan, 
through  the  lacy  creaminess  of  her  loose,  short-sleeved 


176  LONG  SWEETENING 

blouse,  he  caught  the  gleam  of  white,  rounded  flesh. 
Her  pallor,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  glow  of  health  he 
had  always  seen,  not  only  emphasized  the  delicacy  and 
purity  of  outline,  but  added  character  to  her  face. 

Carson  framed  his  lips  to  sound  the  familiar  bird  call, 
but  an  inexplicable  diffidence  checked  him.  He  watched 
her  while  she  settled  herself  listlessly  in  a  hammock 
with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  and  felt  a 
sense  of  annoyance  that  her  long  brown  lashes  con- 
cealed those  wistful  eyes  fixed  on  the  distance.  There 
was  something  indefinable  in  her  manner,  or  her  ap- 
pearance— possibly  in  the  tender,  almost  pathetic,  curve 
of  her  full  lips — that  irresistibly  stirred  within  him  a 
feeling  of  deep  compassion. 

At  the  sound  of  his  whistle  she  started  up,  stared 
about  her  and  listened.  She  had  about  decided  that  it 
was  either  a  thrush  or  a  trick  of  the  imagination, 
when  Carson  repeated  it,  parted  the  foliage  and  waved 
a  hand.  She  sprang  from  the  hammock  and  started 
to  run  toward  the  gate,  but  stopped  abruptly  and  stood 
staring  at  him  with  dilated  eyes,  her  hands  clutching 
at  her  heart  and  her  breath  coming  in  gasps. 

"You  didn't  expect  to  see  me  here,  did  you?"  He 
smiled  down  on  her.  "I'm  sorry  to  have  startled 
you  so." 

She  had  believed  that  immediately  upon  her  failure 
to  keep  their  appointment  he  had  abandoned  all  ex- 
pectation of  seeing  her  again,  and  had  slipped  away  to 
the  North.  Now,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was 
foremost  in  her  thoughts  and  at  the  same  time  the 


LONG  SWEETENING  1 77 

last  person  she  expected  to  see,  he  was  there  before 
her.     She  was  too  confused,  too  bewildered,  to  speak. 

"What's  the  matter,  Summins?"  he  asked  gravely 
on  seeing  her  agitation. 

"Why  have  you  come  here?"  she  gasped. 

"You  didn't  keep  our  appointment,  and  I  haven't 
had  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  you  since,"  he  com- 
plained. 

"Didn't  it  occur  to  you  that — that  circumstances 
might  have  prevented?"  There  was  no  bitterness  in 
her  tone — only  simple  dignity.  She  was  getting  a 
grip  on  herself  now. 

"Yes;  that  was  my  conclusion.  Naturally,  I  was 
curious  and  a  little  anxious  to  learn  what  had  hap- 
pened to  you." 

"Nothing  happened — to  me,"  she  replied  very 
quietly. 

"Oh!  I  didn't  know  but  that  Williams  had  seen 
you  signal  to  me,  and — "     He  did  not  finish. 

"No." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  come?" 

"Do  you  think  it  would  have  been  advisable — pos- 
sible— under  the  circumstances?" 

"No ;  probably  not,"  he  admitted,  though  he  was  far 
from  understanding  the  circumstances  upon  which  she 
put  such  stress.  "I  came  up  here  last  night,  but  the 
dogs  scented  me  and  drove  me  away." 

She  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  that  he  had  jeop- 
ardized his  life  or  liberty  merely  to  satisfy  an  idle 
curiosity  concerning  one  in  whom  he  had  shown  no 


178  LONG  SWEETENING 

personal  interest  whatever,  and  she  wondered  what 
his  motive  could  be.  The  thought  that  he  had  come  to 
demand  protection  as  the  price  of  silence  flashed  into 
her  mind  again,  but  she  put  it  resolutely  aside. 

"What  could  possibly  have  happened  to  me  that 
would  justify  you  in  taking  such  risks?"  she  asked 
gravely. 

"Oh,  I  am  taking  no  particular  risk — no  more  than 
I  have  been  taking  every  day." 

"Don't  you  know  that  they  are  after  you — with 
bloodhounds?"  she  asked  in  surprise. 

"How  could  I  help  knowing  it?"  He  laughed. 
"They  picked  up  my  trail  here  this  morning  and  came 
near  catching  me  at  breakfast,"  and  he  told  her  of  the 
chase  and  the  ruse  that  had  sent  them  off  toward 
Warm  Springs,  but  his  narration  failed  to  gain  the  ap- 
proval and  admiration  he  had  expected. 

"I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  made  your 
escape  at  once  instead  of  remaining  here.  Why  don't 
you  get  away  while  they  are  looking  for  you  down 
there?" 

"Because  I  want  to  stay  here." 

"Stay  here!     That  is  impossible!" 

"Not  so  loud — please!"  he  cautioned  with  a  glance 
toward  the  bungalow.     "Why  is  it  impossible?" 

"The  Sheriff  and  his  men  will  be  back  here  this 
evening." 

"The  Sheriff!  Was  that  Sheriff  Burke  chasing  me 
this  morning?" 

"Yes;  who  did  you  think  it  was?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  179 

Carson  was  too  astonished  to  reply.  That  his  foster 
father,  who  had  always  expressed  such  bitter  enmity 
toward  Arnold,  should  have  been  corrupted  by  the 
banker  was  incredible. 

"What  do  you  purpose  doing  now?"  asked  Betty 
anxiously. 

"I?  Why,  I  intend  to  give  that  doddering  old  im- 
becile the  chase  of  his  life,"  declared  Carson,  blazing 
with  resentment  at  the  Sheriff's  disloyalty. 

"But  you  will  try  to  escape,  won't  you?" 

"Escape!  Certainly.  You  don't  think  I  intend  to 
walk  in  and  meekly  surrender,  do  you?" 

She  had  waited,  half  expecting  and  altogether  hop- 
ing he  would  declare  his  innocence,  or  at  least  offer 
some  explanation  of  his  crime,  and  his  attitude  puzzled 
her  more  and  more.  What  could  be  back  of  it  all  ?  She 
felt  that  she  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer. 

"We  met  under  very  unusual  circumstances,"  she 
said  at  last,  slowly  and  with  obvious  effort,  "and 
though  we  became  companions  we  remained  strangers. 
I  reposed  implicit  confidence  in  you,  and  you,  for  some 
reason  that  is  not  clear  to  me,  have  trusted  me.  I 
have  never  sought  to  pry  into  your  personal  affairs, 
and  I  have  not  betrayed  you.  Would  you  mind  an- 
swering me  one  question?" 

Carson  was  both  puzzled  and  surprised  at  the  con- 
tinued gravity  of  her  tone  and  manner. 

"Why — I — I  will  answer  any  question  I  can — un- 
less it  is  too  personal." 


180  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Perhaps  it  is ;  but  if  you  think  so,  you  needn't  an- 
swer. Would  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  did  it?" 
Her  eyes  were  more  than  wistful — they  were  pleading. 

"Why  I  did  what?"  he  asked. 

A  trace  of  disappointment  passed  over  her  face  as 
she  framed  her  reply.    "Why  you — violated  the  law?" 

He  could  not  repress  a  smile,  as  he  asked:  "Why 
do  you  take  it  so  seriously?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  Even  a  hardened 
criminal  must  understand  the  abhorrence  with  which 
others  regard  his  crimes.  That  he  could  think  her 
capable  of  such  complaisance  stirred  her  resentment. 

"Is  that  the  answer  to  my  question — you  have  no 
sense  of  right  and  wrong?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  have  shown  what  might  be  con- 
sidered a  want  of  regard  for  the  property  rights  of 
others,"  he  admitted  with  a  shrug,  "but  why  have 
you  become  so  suddenly  scrupulous  concerning  an  of- 
fense that  you  countenanced?" 

"That  /  countenanced?"  She  eyed  him  reproach- 
fully. 

"Yes — implicitly." 

"Did  you  think  that  I  for  a  moment  suspected  who 
or  what  you  really  were?  I  believed  what  you  chose  to 
tell  me  concerning  yourself — that  you  were  nobody  in 
particular  in  search  of  health.  Did  you  think  I  was 
so  sophisticated  that  I  would,  merely  from  your  ret- 
icence and  secrecy,  divine  the  truth  concerning  your 
identity  and  ulterior  motives?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  181 

Carson  stared  at  her  in  speechless  stupefaction.  In 
some  way — and  it  could  only  have  been  through  Sher- 
iff Burke — she  had  discovered  his  identity  and  his 
whole  scheme  of  revenge  upon  her  father.  What  a 
fool  he  had  been  to  expose  himself  to  such  a  possi- 
bility! But  who  could  have  forseen  Burke's  perfidy? 
The  rage  blazing  under  his  slowly  gathering  frown 
began  to  focus  upon  the  nearest  object — the  girl  who 
had  unmasked  him. 

"And  what  reason  had  you  to  believe,"  she  continued 
evenly,  "that  I,  surmising  the  truth,  could  possibly 
countenance — the  robbery  of  a  stage?" 

If  Carson  had  not  been  firmly  seated  the  shock 
of  the  reaction  would  have  shaken  him  from  the  tree. 
Instead  of  being  identified  as  Wade  Carson,  the  attor- 
ney, he  was  merely  a  mysterious  stranger  suspected 
of  a  stage  robbery.  Through  some  blunder  his  trail 
had  been  followed,  and  the  Sheriff's  posse  was  pur- 
suing him  instead  of  the  real  bandit.  As  he  began  to 
realize  the  ridiculous  side  of  the  situation,  a  grin  spread 
over  his  face,  and  he  could  hardly  suppress  a  roar  of 
laughter  that  would  have  startled  Williams  from  his 
doze. 

"You  evidently  consider  it  a  joke,"  said  Betty  in- 
dignantly. 

"I  do,"  he  admitted  cheerfully,  "and  so  will  you 
when  you  understand  it." 

"How  can  you  expect  me  to  understand  it,  when  you 
don't  explain  it  ?"  she  asked  hopefully. 


182  LONG  SWEETENING 

For  a  moment  Carson  was  undecided  whether  to 
undeceive  her  at  once  or  keep  her  in  suspense  a  little 
longer  to  punish  her  for  her  suspicions.  Besides,  he 
reflected,  it  might  be  more  prudent  to  leave  her  con- 
victions unshaken  and  her  curiosity  as  to  his  identity 
unsatisfied  for  the  present. 

"Under  the  circumstances,  I  don't  think  I  can  ex- 
plain it — just  now,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  had  hoped  that  you  could."  She 
showed  her  disappointment. 

"You  will  probably  understand  it  very  soon." 

"I  hope  so.  I  suppose,  of  course,  you  know,"  she 
added  after  a  pause,  "that  you  are  in  great  danger. 
The  Sheriff  has  given  orders  to  take  you  dead  or 
alive,  and  I  don't  think  his  men  will  be  particular." 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  be  a  little  more  careful,"  he 
replied  flippantly. 

Carson  pondered  the  situation.  In  the  interests  of 
justice  and  for  his  old  benefactor's  official  reputa- 
tion, Burke  should  be  notified  at  once  that  he  was  on 
a  false  scent.  There  was  a  possibility  that  he  might 
encounter  the  Sheriff  somewhere  on  the  trip  to  or 
from  the  stage  road,  but  he  would  have  to  exercise 
great  caution,  or  some  nervous  deputy  might  let  his 
gun  go  off  before  he  saw  the  hands  raised  in  amity 
and  surrender. 

"Unless  you  consider  it  your  duty  to  take  me  into 
custody,  I  think  I  shall  be  moving  on,"  he  said  with 
a  smile. 

"Where  are  you  going  now?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  183 

"Down  to  meet  the  stage  and  get  the  supplies  I  or- 
dered." 

Betty  was  dumfounded.  The  man  must  be  insane  to 
think  of  walking  deliberately  into  deadly  peril  and 
committing  another  crime! 

"The  road  is  guarded,  and  you  will  surely  be  cap- 
tured or  killed/ '  she  warned  him. 

"And  you  don't  want  to  have  me  killed  ?" 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  of  any  one  being  killed." 

"Or  captured?" 

She  hesitated  before  she  replied:  "I  think  I  would 
rather  you  were  captured,  or  even  killed,  than  that 
you  should  commit  another  robbery." 

"What  if  I  promise  that  I  will  not  commit  another 
robbery  ?" 

"I  would  be  glad  to  believe  that  you  meant  it." 

He  meditated.  "Suppose  I  surrender  to  the  Sheriff 
and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,"  he  suggested. 

"That  is  a  matter  between  you  and  your  own  con- 
science. I  would  not  have  the  presumption  to  advise 
you,  even  if  I  knew  all  the  circumstances.  If  this 
were  your  first  offense — "  She  paused. 

"Will  you  believe  me  if  I  tell  you  the  truth?" 

"Yes;  if  you  say  it  is  the  truth." 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  have  even  been  suspected 
of  crime." 

"Isn't  that  a  little  equivocal?  One  may  commit 
many  crimes  without  ever  being  suspected." 

"I  have  not." 

"Not  committee! — many?" 


i84  LONG  SWEETENING. 

"Not  one." 

"Didn't  you  rob  this  stage  before?" 

"No;  I  didn't  even  know  it  had  been  robbed." 

"Then  who  did  it?"  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"I  don't  know.    If  I  did,  I  would  tell  you." 

"Is  this  really  your  first  offense  ?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"You  know  the  full  extent  of  my  criminality." 

"If  you  escape  this  time,  will  you  really  try  to  re- 
form, or  will  it  simply  encourage  you  to  a  repetition  ?" 

"I  promise  that  I  will  trv  to  be  an  upright  and 
honest  citizen." 

"Upon  your  word  of  honor  ?" 

"Upon  the  word  and  honor  of  one  who  has  always 
been  regarded  as  a  gentleman  until  now." 

"Then  I  do  hope  you  get  away." 

"I  won't,  if  I  don't  start  soon."  and  he  climbed 
down  to  the  ground. 

"Why  are  you  carrying  that?"  asked  Betty,  point- 
ing to  the  revolver  on  his  hip. 

"I  thought  I  might  need  it." 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  not  use  it,  won't  you?" 
she  pleaded.  "If  you  are  surrounded  please  surren- 
der, for  resistance  can  only  result  in  your  death,  or 
the  murder  of  men  who  are  only  doing  their  duty." 

"I  promise,  but  if  you  have  any  doubts  or  fears 
I  will  leave  it  with  you." 

"No ;  I  believe  in  putting  people  on  their  honor  and 
trusting  them." 

"Thank  you.  I'm  sorry  I  haven't  any  more  pepper, 


LONG  SWEETENING  185 

for  the  trail  I  am  leaving  may  cause  you  some  em- 
bar  rassment." 

"Wait,  and  I'll  get  you  some,"  and  she  started  to- 
ward the  bungalow. 

"Do  you  think  that  would  be  wise?  You  are  not 
criminally  liable,  so  long  as  you  remain  silent  and  pas- 
sive, but  the  moment  you  give  me  any  active  assistance 
you  make  yourself  my  accomplice." 

Betty  hesitated  only  an  instant.  "Well,  I  don't 
care,"  she  decided.  "It  amounts  to  the  same  thing  in 
the  end."  She  started  away,  then  stopped.  "Will 
you — "  She  hesitated,  perplexed.  "Won't  you  need 
some  money?    I  can  lend  you  some." 

"Oh,  no;  thank  you.     I  have  plenty."    He  smiled. 

"But  you  can't  use — that,"  she!  protested. 

"I  will  not  use  a  cent  that  I  have  not  earned." 

As  she  hurried  toward  the  bungalow  Carson's  eyes 
followed  her  with  genuine  admiration.  Though  he  had 
always  recognized  her  courage  and  intelligence,  her 
feminine  charm  and  quick  sympathies  were  revela- 
tions; and,  as  he  reflected  on  the  distress  she  must 
have  suffered  and  the  discomfort  he  was  still  inflict- 
ing, his  conscience  smote  him.  He  should  end  the  mis- 
erable joke  at  once  and  relieve  her  of  all  further  anx- 
iety. 

When  she  returned,  almost  breathless,  with  a  large 
can  of  cayenne  pepper,  she  was  glowing  with  excite- 
ment and  filled  with  solicitude. 

"If  you  escape  write  to  me  and  tell  me  how  you  are 
getting  on,"  she  enjoined  him.    "The  knowledge  that 


i86  LONG  SWEETENING 

my  confidence  in  your  ultimate  success  h&s  not  been 
misplaced  will  more  than  compensate  me  for  anything 
I  may  have  done;  and  if  you  should  be  captured  and 
sent  to  the  penitentiary,  there  is  still  hope.  Mother  is 
vice-president  of  a  convict's  aid  association,  and  my 
father  will  do  anything  he — " 

"Thank  you,  but  I  shall  be  able  to  get  along  with- 
out their  help,"  he  interrupted,  rather  ungraciously, 
she  thought.    "Good-bye." 

He  started  to  leave  her  abruptly,  but  her  out- 
stretched hand  checked  him. 

"Good-bye." 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  care  to  shake  hands  with 
a  highwayman." 

"That  is  past;  you're  an  honest  man  now.  And 
I  want  you  to  feel  always  that  I — I  enjoyed  our  brief 
friendship — and  am  still  your  friend." 

Carson  slunk  away  feeling  more  a  criminal  than 
ever  in  his  life  before. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Carson  selected  a  route  that  would  permit  him  to 
travel  with  reasonable  ease  and  directness,  and  at  the 
same  time  enable  him  to  keep  well  under  cover.  He 
avoided  all  trails  and  openings  whenever  possible,  being 
careful  to  leave  no  tracks  and  plenty  of  pepper  when- 
ever compelled  to  cross  one,  and  stopped  often  to  lis- 
ten for  any  sound  that  would  reveal  the  approach  of 
his  pursuers. 

He  was  hurrying  down  a  manzanita-covered  ridge 
ending  abruptly  in  a  rocky  point  around  which  the 
stage  road  wound,  when  he  heard  a  rustle  in  the 
brush  below.  He  crouched  instantly  behind  a  cluster 
of  manzanita,  watching  and  listening,  and  a  moment 
later  saw  a  stranger  cautiously  making  his  way  to- 
ward the  road.  The  fellow  had  a  revolver  dangling  at 
his  hip,  and  from  one  shoulder  hung  a  pair  of  field 
glasses. 

"Must  be  one  of  Burke's  men,"  muttered  Carson. 
"Confoundedly  awkward  to  run  into  him  here." 

The  stranger  hurried  to  the  pile  of  rocks,  unslung 
his  glasses  and  focused  them  on  the  stretch  of  road 
below.  Carson  was  about  to  turn  back  toward  a  point 
further  down,  where  he  could  intercept  the  stage  un- 
observed, when  the  stranger  drew  his  revolver,  ex- 
amined it  critically  and  laid  it  on  the  rock  beside 
him. 

"I  wonder  if  he  expects  me  on  the  stage,"  mused 
Carson. 


(187) 


188  LONG  SWEETENING 

As  the  crack  of  the  drivers  whip  echoed  up  the 
canyon,  the  man  behind  the  rock  looked  through  the 
glasses  again,  and,  apparently  satisfied,  drew  a  grain 
sack  from  beneath  his  coat  and  pulled  it  over  his  head. 
"By  George!  He's  going  to  hold  it  up!"  muttered 
Carson. 

The  highwayman  had  selected  the  spot  with  strategic 
care.  It  afforded  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  road 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  the  opportunity  to  learn 
in  advance  what  passengers  it  carried,  and  whether  or 
not  a  shotgun  messenger  rode  with  it.  If  the  condi- 
tions should  appear  unsatisfactory,  the  bandit  could 
slip  back  into  the  brush  and  let  the  stage  pass  un- 
molested. 

Carson  could  hear  the  rattle  of  the  harness  and  the 
creak  of  the  coach  as  the  team  labored  up  the  grade. 
Dropping  on  his  hands  and  knees  he  began  crawling 
noiselessly  through  the  manzanita  toward  the  high- 
wayman, who  was  crouching  behind  the  rock  with  his 
back  to  him.  He  was  within  thirty  yards  of  the  fellow 
when  he  heard  the  command : 
"Throw  out  the  box!" 

"Whoa!"  shouted  the  driver,  as  he  yanked  at  the 
reins  and  threw  on  his  brake. 

He  was  employed  to  drive  a  stage — not  to  battle 
with  highwaymen — and  experience  had  taught  him 
that  his  safety  lay  in  prompt  compliance.  He  stooped 
down,  lifted  the  heavy  express  box,  and  as  he  straight- 
ened up  to  drop  it  by  the  roadside  saw  Carson  stand- 
ing erect  and  signaling  him. 


LONG  SWEETENING  189 

"Throw  out  the  mail-bag !"  ordered  the  bandit, 
whose  attention  was  riveted  on  the  work  before  him. 

"Which  bag  do  you  want?"  asked  the  driver,  man- 
oeuvering  to  gain  time. 

"You  know  damned  well.    And  be  quick  about  it!" 

"Whoa!"  bellowed  the  driver,  as  he  jerked  on  the 
reins  of  the  patient  horses  and  thumped  the  soles  of  his 
heavy  boots  on  the  dash-board.  "You're  not  very 
sociable,"  he  grumbled.  "Seems  to  me  we  ought  to  be 
kind  of  acquainted  by  this  time."  He  took  all  the 
time  and  made  all  the  noise  possible  in  getting  out  the 
mail-bag,  while  the  bandit  kept  him  covered  with  his 
revolver. 

"Drive  on!"  he  ordered,  when  the  bag  had  been 
thrown  out. 

"Git  up!"  the  driver  shouted  at  his  horses,  and  re- 
leased his  brake  with  a  bang  and  a  clatter. 

Carson  could  have  touched  the  highwayman's  feet, 
as  he  raised  himself  directly  behind  him.  He  took 
one  quick  step  and  brought  the  barrel  of  his  revolver 
down  on  his  skull  with  a  crash.  The  fellow  dropped 
like  a  log,  his  weapon  exploding  and  sending  a  bullet 
whistling  harmlessly  over  the  driver's  head. 

"Good  work!"  he  shouted,  as  he  reined  in,  wrapped 
the  lines  around  the  brake  and  clambered  down  into 
the  road. 

They  tied  the  bandit  hand  and  foot,  and  then  pulled 
the  sack  from  his  head. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  exclaimed  the  driver. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  asked  Carson. 


i9o  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Know  him  ?  Why,  that's  Hank  Brown.  He  lives 
in  a  cabin  down  the  canyon  there.  He's  the  fellow 
that's  been  holding  up  this  stage  about  once  a  month 
for  the  last  year,  and  then  going  out  with  the  Sheriff 
to  hunt  the  robber.     The  nerve  of  him!" 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  up  to  you  to  put  him  on  the 
passenger  list  and  deliver  him  at  the  county  jail.  I'll 
notify  Burke  tonight.  He  and  his  men  are  up  around 
the  lake." 

After  they  had  tied  the  hands  and  feet  of  the  still 
unconscious  robber,  they  bundled  him  into  the  coach 
and  prevailed  upon  the  single  passenger,  who  had  been 
crouching  in  a  corner  inside,  to  sit  guard  over  him 
with  a  cocked  revolver. 

Carson  took  the  supplies  he  had  ordered  and  started 
on  the  return  trip,  well  satisfied  with  the  events  of  the 
day.  There  was  now  no  urgency  about  communicating 
with  Burke,  and  he  was  well  enough  acquainted  with 
the  Sheriff's  methods  to  forecast  his  movements. 
When  he  found  he  had  been  outwitted  he  would  beat 
slowly  back  toward  the  lake,  end  the  day's  search 
around  the  Hog's  Back  where  the  chase  had  been  the 
hottest,  and  put  up  for  the  night  at  the  bungalow, 
with  the  hope  of  being  able  to  pick  up  the  trail  again 
the  next  morning.  By  proceeding  leisurely  he  would 
keep  behind  the  returning  posse  and  reach  his  cave 
after  they  had  abandoned  the  pursuit  for  the  day. 
Then,  under  cover  of  darkness,  he  would  slip  up  to 
the  bungalow  and  have  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  the 
old  man. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Sheriff  Burke  returned  from  the  day's  chase  more 
puzzled  and  perplexed  than  ever  before  in  his  long  ex- 
perience as  a  tracker  of  criminals.  The  repeated  rob- 
bery of  the  stage  and  the  invariable  escape  of  the 
highwayman  had  cost  him  some  criticism,  many  sleep- 
less nights,  and  a  great  deal  of  chagrin.  Heretofore 
the  fellow  had  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as  he  had 
come,  leaving  no  trace  behind  him,  but  this  time  he 
had  left  a  trail  that  Burke  himself  admitted  was  as 
broad  as  a  wagon  road.  When  it  led  to  the  very 
door  of  his  headquarters  he  had  attributed  it  con- 
fidently to  the  blundering  attempts  of  a  desperate  out- 
law to  obtain  food ;  but  the  ease  with  which  the  Sheriff 
had  been  outwitted  almost  convinced  him  that  it  was 
a  challenge. 

"If  we  don't  look  out,"  he  confided  to  one  of  his 
deputies  in  disgust,  "that  fellow  will  be  holding  us  up, 
taking  our  guns  away  from  us  and  sicking  our  own 
dogs  on  us." 

"It  couldn't  be  that  gamekeeper,  could  it?" 

"No;  I  thought  of  that,"  replied  Burke.  "The  dogs 
know  their  man  when  they  scent  him,  and  they  don't 
pay  any  attention  to  him." 

But  the  Sheriff's  keen  eyes  had  discovered  seme 
facts  and  circumstances  so  peculiar  in  their  nature 
that  they  required  explanation  before  he  confided  to 
any  one  the  shrewd  suspicion  they  had  aroused.    This 

(191) 


192  LONG  SWEETENING 

was  the  thought  uppermost  in  his  mind  as  he  walked 
toward  the  veranda  where  Mrs.  Arnold,  Betty,  Wil- 
liams and  the  other  servants  were  awaiting  news  of 
the  day's  chase. 

"We  haven't  got  him  yet,"  he  told  them,  "but  we're 
mighty  close  to  him."  He  glanced  narrowly  over  the 
group  to  note  the  effect.  "Last  night  he  was  here 
within  a  rod  of  this  house!" 

Even  the  lethargic  Williams  manifested  surprise, 
and  Mrs.  Arnold  became  hysterical.  Betty  alone 
showed  anything  like  composure,  as  she  tried  to  soothe 
and  reassure  her  mother,  and  Burke  observed  that  she 
seemed  to  have  recovered  completely  from  the  decided 
indisposition  of  the  previous  day.  He  watched  an  op- 
portunity to  engage  her  in  apparently  casual  conver- 
sation. 

"Pretty  lonesome  up  here,  isn't  it  ?"  he  observed. 

"No;  not  when  one  likes  seclusion,"  she  replied. 

"Haven't  had  any  visitors  lately,  have  you?" 

"No;  we  have  no  guests." 

"And  no  neighbors." 

"None  nearer  than  Warm  Springs.  Besides,  I  un- 
derstand we  are  not  considered  neighborly."  She 
laughed. 

"Most  girls  would  be  afraid  to  wander  around  much 
alone  up  here."  It  was  an  obvious  tribute  to  her  fear- 
lessness. 

"I  suppose  I  should  be,  but  I  never  have  been — 
until  this — this  thing  happened." 

"Gave  you  quite  a  turn,  didn't  it?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  193 

"Yes;  it  is  annoying  to  have  robbers  all  over  the 
place." 

"And  this  fellow's  been  *making  his  headquarters 
around  here  for  some  time.  Weren't  you  ever  afraid 
of  running  into  him?" 

"Oh,  I  scarcely  gave  it  a  thought,  I  suppose,  be- 
cause it  was  never  brought  so  close  home  before." 

"And,  besides,  this  is  the  first  time  you  ever  actually 
saw  him." 

"And  I  wouldn't  have  known  he  was  a  robber  then, 
if  you  hadn't  told  me." 

"But  you've  been  bothered  a  lot  by  trespassers,  your 
father  told  me." 

"Oh,  that  is  mostly  in  Williams's  and  mother's  im- 
agination.    He  is  always  trying  to  frighten  us  away." 

"Don't  you  ever  see  any?" 

"Oh,  possibly  once  or  twice  in  a  season  I  see  some 
stranger  on  our  land." 

"Seen  any  lately  ?" 

Betty  was  growing  uneasy  despite  the  Sheriff's  casu- 
al manner  and  tone.  "Why,  Williams  reported  about 
two  weeks  ago  that  one  had  killed  a  deer,  but  I  didn't 
see  the  fellow." 

"Now,  why  do  you  think  Williams  is  trying  to 
frighten  you  all  away?"  The  Sheriff's  tone  was  con- 
fidential, and  his  eyes  were  twinkling  shrewdly. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  he  regards  us  as  disturbers  of  his 
peace  and  quiet." 

The  Sheriff  glanced  about  cautiously  and  lowered 
his  voice  to  a  whisper.     "Dc  you  reckon  he  might 


194  LONG  SWEETENING 

possibly  want  to  get  you  away  from  here  so  he  could 
hold  up  that  stage?" 

Burke's  suspicion  was  so  ridiculous  that  Betty 
laughed  outright.  "Why,  he's  too  lazy  to  hold  him- 
self up,"  she  declared. 

The  Sheriff  appeared  disappointed,  crestfallen,  al- 
most grieved.  "Well,  I  didn't  know."  He  meditated 
a  moment,  then  brightened  with  a  new  idea.  "He 
might  be  in  cahoots  with  the  robber,  though,  and 
give  him  a  hiding  place  in  exchange  for  a  share  of 
the  money.  Did  they  appear  to  know  one  another 
when  you  saw  them  together?" 

"I  didn't  see  them  together.  As  Williams  says, 
they  were  about  two  hundred  yards  apart." 

"You  didn't  happen  to  see  Williams  doing  anything 
that  might  look  like  signaling,  did  you?" 

"No;  he  was  just  watching." 

"Well,  its  mighty  peculiar." 

"What  is?" 

"That  Williams  has  never  seen  this  fellow  before. 
I  don't  suppose  you  have  either."  The  Sheriff  evi- 
dently expected  an  answer. 

"Why,  I — I  hardly  ever  see  anybody — even  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  as  far  as  recognizing  him  is  concerned — I 
think  I  shall  have  to  go  look  after  mother  now.  She 
is  terribly  upset." 

The  Sheriff  stooped  and  picked  up  something  from 
the  ground  as  Betty  turned  to  go.  "Is  this  yours, 
Miss  Arnold  ?"  He  held  out  a  tortoise  shell  hairpin  for 
her  inspection. 


LONG  SWEETENING  195 

"Yes;  it  must  have  dropped  out  of  my  hair." 

"Isn't  that  funny,  now  ?  How  do  you  suppose  that 
ever  found  its  way  to  the  robber's  camp?" 

"At  his  camp!" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  you  just  picked  it  up." 

"Well,  I  dropped  it  as  I  took  it  out  of  my  pocket." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I  must  have  dropped  it  somewhere. 
I'm  shedding  hairpins  all  over  the  place." 

"When  were  you  there  last?" 

"First  tell  me  where  his  camp  was."  Betty  con- 
gratulated herself  upon  her  acumen. 

"By  the  spring,  just  beyond  that  point  of  rocks." 

"Oh,  let  me  see!  I  was  there  two  or  three  days 
before  the  stage  was  robbed." 

"Why,  he  must  have  been  there  then!" 

"Do  you  think  he  could  have  been  hiding  and  watch- 
ing me?"  she  asked  with  well-simulated  perturbation. 

"That's  quite  possible.  What  in  the  world  were  you 
doing  there?" 

"Oh,  I  went  there  frequently — to  have  breakfast — 
trout  just  ouj  of  the  lake  and  broiled  on  coals,  you 
know." 

"And  you  never  saw  any  one  there — or  any  signs 
that  some  one  else  had  been  there?" 

"I  never  saw  the  slightest  thing  that  was  calculated 
to  excite  my  suspicion  or  distrust,"  she  declared. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  you'd  tell  me  if  you  had,"  ob- 
served the  Sheriff  confidentially,  "but  I  didn't  know 


196  LONG  SWEETENING 

but  what  there  might  be  some  little  thing  that  you 
had  forgotten  or  considered  unimportant." 

Sheriff  Burke  pursued  the  subject  no  further,  for 
he  did  not  intend  to  let  Betty  know  that  her  evasions 
had  verified  his  suspicions.  He  had  merely  given  her 
an  opportunity  to  tell  voluntarily  all  she  knew  about 
the  fellow,  and  if  she  would  not  do  so,  he  knew  noth- 
ing would  wring  it  from  her.  If  she  would  shield 
him,  she  must  have  a  deep  interest  in  him,  and  that 
interest  could  be  counted  on  to  lead  to  the  highway- 
man's capture,  if  the  immediate  chase  prived  unsuc- 
cessful. That  she  knew  him  and  had  been  his  com- 
panion, he  was  certain,  for  he  had  found  their  tracks 
in  several  different  places,  and  the  manner  in  which 
first  his  and  immediately  afterwards  hers  superim- 
posed showed  that  they  must  have  been  together.  The 
Sheriff  was  now  confident  that  the  fellow  had  come 
to  the  bungalow  the  previous  night  to  get  into  com- 
munication with  her,  and  felt  assured  that  he  would 
come  again,  if  the  opportunity  offered  itself.  If  the 
exciting  chase  deteriorated  into  cheap  detective  work., 
all  he  had  to  do  was  to  get  back  to  first  principles  and 
keep  an  eye  on  the  girl  in  the  case. 

The  Sheriff's  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  a  distant  rifle  shot.  He  located  it  and  waited 
for  two  more — the  signal  that  would  summon  every 
man  within  hearing. 

"Some  fool  hunter  gumming  things  up,"  he  decided, 
but  within  a  couple  of  minutes  he  heard  the  pound  of 
horse's  hoofs,  and  a  moment  later  could  make  out  a 


LONG  SWEETENING  197 

horseman  approaching  at  a  furious  gallop  by  the 
Warm  Springs  trail. 

Everybody  rushed  from  the  bungalow  to  await  his 
coming  and  learn  the  cause  of  his  excitement.  It 
was  one  of  the  Sheriff's  deputies. 

"I  think  I  got  him!"  he  shouted,  as  he  spurred  up 
to  the  fence  and  sprang  from  his  horse. 

"Where?"  asked  Burke. 

"About  half  a  mile  below  the  lake — five  minutes  ago. 
I  saw  him  dart  across  a  little  opening  and  took  a  pot 
shot  at  him.  It  was  too  dark  to  tell  exactly,  but  I  saw 
him  stagger  into  the  brush." 

"Why  didn't  you  go  in  after  him?"  demanded  the 
Sheriff  in  anger  and  disgust. 

"Well,  if  he's  dead,  we'll  find  him  there;  if  he  ain't, 
you'd  'a'  found  me  there.     I'd  rather  be  here." 

"I  can  see  that." 

"He's  in  that  patch  of  chaparral  just  East  of  the 
main  trail." 

"Call  in  the  men,  surround  the  place  and  keep  him 
there,"  ordered  the  Sheriff.  "I'll  be  there  at  daylight 
with  the  dogs,  and  we'll  fetch  him  out  dead  or  alive — 
and  I  don't  care  which  it  is." 

The  men  scurried  away,  one  to  the  East,  the  other 
to  the  West,  and  when  the  Sheriff  turned  to  look  for 
Betty  she  was  gone.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wait  and  watch.  If  the  bandit  had  been  killed  or 
severely  wounded,  they  would  find  him  in  the  morning ; 
if  he  were  still  able  to  travel,  the  cordon  tightening 
around  him  would  drive  him  toward  the  lake  and  prob- 
ably to  the  bungalow. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

It  was  only  by  the  exercise  of  all  her  self-control 
that  Betty  was  able  to  maintain  a  show  of  composure 
through  the  interminable  meal  that  the  Sheriff  insisted 
on  referring  to  as  "supper."  She  felt  that  she  could 
not  eat,  yet  she  must;  that  she  could  not  remain,  yet 
she  had  to;  that  she  could  no  longer  endure  the  con- 
versation, all  on  one  topic,  yet  she  must  not  miss  a  word 
of  it.  While  he  was  lying  out  there  in  the  darkness, 
dead,  dying  or  facing  death,  she  was  compelled  to* 
sit  and  listen  to  Burke's  cheerful  garrulity  and  Mrs. 
Arnold's  reiterated  predictions  and  warnings,  with  a 
pretense  of  sympathetic  interest,  smiling  with  the 
Sheriff  and  shuddering  with  her  mother,  until  she  was 
almost  frantic. 

"Well,  I  guess  we've  got  him  this  time,"  said  the 
Sheriff,  beaming  with  satisfaction.  "Charlie's  one  of 
the  best  snap  shots  in  this  part  of  the  country,  and  it 
isn't  likely  that  he  missed.  But  if  he  did,  the  fellow 
can't  get  away.  And  I  calculate  you'll  feel  a  mite 
safer." 

"Indeed,  I  shall,  Mr.  Burke." 

"The  idea  of  sharing  your  country  place  with  a  stage 
robber  isn't  exactly  gratifying,  is  it?" 

"By  no  means!" 

"And  he's  surely  been  making  himself  at  home 
here  for  a  long  time." 

(198) 


LONG  SWEETENING  199 

"I  have  had  a  premonition  of  something  of  the  sort 
for  a  long  time,  Mr.  Burke,  and  I  have  been  so  fear- 
ful for  my  daughter.  She  is  absolutely  reckless,  and 
in  spite  of  all  my  warnings  she  has  been  away  alone 
from  morning  to  night.  What  a  terrible  thing  it  would 
have  been  if  she  had  encountered  this  outlaw !" 

"Terrible!  Terrible!"  echoed  the  Sheriff,  looking  at 
Betty  as  though  marveling  at  her  presence  in  the 
flesh.  "And  she  had  a  mighty  narrow  escape,  Mrs. 
Arnold,  as  I  was  just  telling  her." 

"Narrow  escape !    Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"That  fellow  had  his  camp  up  at  the  other  end  of 
the  lake,  where — " 

"Won't  you  have  some  of  the  wild  bee  honey,  Mr. 
Burke?"  interrupted  Betty. 

"No,  thank  you." 

"It's  delicious — wild  lilac  and  red  clover  blossoms." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  never  seem  to  take  to  honey  on 
meat  or  potatoes.    As  I  was — " 

"Williams  got  this  out  of  a  bee  tree.  Did  you  ever 
trail  wild  bees  to  their  hive,  Mr.  Burke?" 

"No;  bees  always  seem  to  get  on  my  trail  first,  and 
I'm  the  one  that  has  to  make  tracks.  As  I  was  say- 
ing, Mrs.  Arnold,  that  fellow  had  his  camp  right  where 
Miss  Arnold  has  been  cooking  her  trout  for  breakfast." 

"Trout — for  breakfast!"  Mrs.  Arnold  looked  at 
Betty  in  surprise.  "You  never  told  me  you  cooked 
trout  for  your  breakfast,  Betty." 

"No ;  I  was  afraid  you  would  disapprove  of  it — and 
I  like  them  broiled  on  coals." 


2oo  LONG  SWEETENING 

"And  he  was  probably  hiding  in  the  brush  watching 
her/'  continued  the  Sheriff,  "like  a  panther  watch- 
ing a  cow,  when  he's  afraid  the  game  is  too  dangerous 
for  him." 

The  inapposite  simile  was  lost  by  Mrs.  Arnold  in 
the  excitement  of  a  new  alarm.  "And  you  never  saw 
or  heard  him,  Betty — or  even  suspected  any  one  was 
near!     It  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  it!" 

"Oh,  he  was  a  slick  one — wore  moccasins  and  knew 
how  to  keep  out  of  sight,"  explained  Burke.  "Are 
there  many  trout  in  the  lake?" 

"Oh,  yes;  it's  full  of  them." 

"I  suppose  I  could  shoot  a  sucker,  if  it  was  in  a 
tub  and  I  had  a  scatter-gun,  but  I  never  could  catch 
trout.    How  do  you  do  it  ?"  He  turned  to  Betty. 

"With  a  rod — and  artificial  flies." 

"But  you  haven't  had  your  rod  out  since  we  came 
•up,"  said  Mrs.  Arnold. 

"When  you  haven't  a  rod  you  can  use  any  kind  of  a 
pole,"  Betty  informed  Burke. 

"If  I  had  known  it  was  that  easy,  I'd  have  asked  you 
to  catch  some  for  my  supper." 

"I  will  catch  a  nice  one  for  your  breakfast,  if  you 
wish,"  offered  Betty  eagerly. 

"I  hardly  think  you'll  be  up  early  enough." 

"I  can  catch  one  tonight." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  too  much  trouble." 

"No  trouble  at  all,  I  assure  you.  I'll  just  take  my 
canoe  and  paddle  up  the  lake  where  the  water  is  shal- 
low, and — " 


LONG  SWEETENING  201 

"No;  I  don't  think  it  would  be  safe  for  you  to  go 
paddling  around  in  the  dark  just  now." 

"Why?  The  stage  robber  hasn't  a  boat." 

"No ;  but  my  men  have  guns.  I  can't  let  you  run  such 
chances  just  to  get  me  some  fish.  Maybe  I  can  hook  a 
can  of  sardines  out  of  your  pantry.  They'll  answer 
just  as  well." 

Sheriff  Burke  was  a  practical  psychologist,  even 
though  he  had  once  repudiated  the  suggestion  with 
some  heat,  declaring  that  he  had  never  ridden  one  in 
his  whole  life,  and,  while  they  might  be  all  right  in 
town,  a  pacing  mule  was  the  only  thing  for  the  moun- 
tains. Naturally  shrewd  and  intuitive,  many  years  of 
official  experience  with  secretive  and  evasive  criminals, 
witnesses  and  litigants  had  rendered  his  judgment  of 
character  and  motive  almost  unerring.  During  the 
progress  of  the  meal  he  had  watched  Betty  narrowly, 
weighing  every  word,  noting  every  mental  reaction, 
analyzing  every  physical  reflexion,  and  as  he  sat  on 
the  veranda  puffing  his  pipe  he  summed  up  his  conclu- 
sions concerning  her. 

"She's  all  right,"  he  decided,  "but  she's  headed 
wrong." 

Her  evident  distress  excited  his  quick  compassion 
and  stirred  his  paternal  sympathies.  While  her  loy- 
alty commanded  his  admiration  it  aroused  his  appre- 
hensions, and  he  resolved  to  protect  her  against  herself. 
All  of  which  roused  as  much  resentment  as  he  was  ca- 
pable of  harboring  against  the  man  who  had  involved 
her  and  would  not  hesitate  to  incriminate  her. 


202  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  hope  he's  dead,"  he  mused,  "so  I  won't  feel  called 
on  to  kill  him,  just  to  keep  her  out  of  it." 

He  considered  such  drastic  action  as  well  within  the 
duties  of  a  self-appointed  chaperone. 

But  even  Sheriff  Burke  had  failed  to  plumb  the  full 
depths  of  Betty's  misery.  Lying  on  the  bed  in  her 
darkened  room,  her  whirling",  whirring  brain  reeled  off 
the  pictures  impressed  upon  her  sensitized  imagination, 
pictures  that  were  fleeting,  indistinct,  but  horrible.  She 
closed  her  eyes,  but  again  and  again  they  were  pro- 
jected upon  the  phantasmic  screen,  each  time  more 
clearly  and  distinctly,  until  every  gruesome  and  uncen- 
sorable  detail  was  exposed.  She  saw  her  companion 
rigid  in  death  with  staring  eyes  fixed  uncomprehend- 
ingly  upon  infinity ;  she  saw  him  lying  in  a  covert  ter- 
ribly wounded  and  trying  feebly  to  staunch  the  flow  of 
blood;  she  saw  the  bloodhounds  tracking  him  to  his 
hiding-place  and  tearing  him  with  their  fangs  as  he 
lay  helpless  and  dying;  she  saw  him  shackled  and  in 
the  striped  garb  of  a  convict,  a  sullen,  cowering  brute, 
breaking  rock  under  a  blistering  sun. 

Betty  sprang  from  the  bed  in  desperation.  Something 
must  be  done.  Why  should  a  single  misstep  condemn 
a  man  to  death  or  penal  servitude?  He  had  told  her 
this  was  his  first  offense,  and  she  believed  it;  he  had 
promised  to  lead  an  honest  life,  and  she  had  faith  in 
him.  If  he  were  still  alive  he  should  have  a  chance 
to  retrieve  himself.  And  at  that  very  moment  he 
might  be  dying  for  the  want  of  the  simplest  first-aid 
treatment. 


LONG  SWEETENING  203 

Again  she  thought  of  confessing  everything  to  the 
Sheriff  and  begging  him  to  accompany  her  in  a  search 
for  the  fugitive,  give  him  assistance  if  he  were  wound- 
ed and  persuade  him  to  surrender  if  he  were  not.  His 
camp  must  be  very  near  his  kitchen,  and  could  not  be 
far  from  the  place  where  he  had  last  been  seen.  If 
he  were  alive  and  heard  the  bird  call,  he  would  answer. 
But  there  was  still  the  possibility  that  he  would  be  able 
to  make  his  escape,  if  he  had  not  already  done  so ;  then 
her  disclosures  would  involve  her  without  serving  him. 
And  if  he  surrendered,  there  were  no  assurances  that 
he  would  receive  the  clemency  usually  shown  a  first  of- 
fender. If  she  could  only  know  that  he  was  either  dead 
or  beyond  danger,  or  if  she  could  see  him  alive  and 
speak  with  him,  she  felt  that  she  could  endure  the  long 
night  before  her. 

Betty  raised  a  window-shade  and  looked  out.  The 
moon  had  not  risen.  The  lake  showed  only  a  faint 
glimmer  where  it  was  not  shrouded  by  the  black  shad- 
ows of  overhanging  forests.  A  canoe  gliding  noise- 
lessly in  those  shadows  would  escape  the  keenest  ob- 
server. With  quick  determination  Betty  changed  to 
khaki,  puttees,  a  dark  cap  and  rubber-soled  shoes.  She 
tiptoed  to  the  dining-room,  stuffed  her  pockets  with 
napkins  for  bandages,  filled  a  strapped  flask  with 
cognac,  slung  it  over  her  shoulder,  slipped  out  the 
back  door  and  picked  her  way  through  the  laurel  grove 
to  the  boat  landing.  The  canoe  was  gone!  Even  the 
oars  of  the  light  boats  had  been  carried  away!  Anger 
succeeded  dismay.  If  that  doddering  old  imbecile  of  a 


204  LONG  SWEETENING 

Sheriff  thought — yes,  that  was  what  he  had  called  him. 
She  returned  to  the  bungalow,  stripped  off  the  khaki, 
donned  her  bathing-suit  and  threw  a  dark  cape  around 
her.  In  the  shadow  of  the  laurels  she  dropped  the  cape, 
tied  her  shoes  together,  hung  them  around  her  neck 
and  slipped  into  the  water.  With  swift  and  silent 
strokes  she  headed  straight  across  the  lake,  the  pine- 
covered  mountain  looming  against  the  sky-line  giving 
her  her  course.  She  had  no  difficulty  in  reaching  the 
little  cove  at  its  Western  base,  or  in  finding  the  deer 
trail  that  led  from  it — the  trail  she  had  followed  the 
day  she  was  snared.  In  order  to  avoid  the  deputies 
she  must  keep  to  the  forest,  but  in  its  inky  darkness  she 
had  to  feel  her  way.  She  stumbled  over  rocks  and  logs 
and  struggled  through  a  tangled  maze  of  hazel,  startled 
by  the  sudden  scurry  of  small  animals  from  beneath  her 
feet,  or  by  the  unexpected  hoot  of  a  horned  owl  just 
above  her  head.  Once  she  heard  the  scream  of  a  pan- 
ther in  the  distance  and  stopped,  shivering  with  terror 
that  urged  her  to  turn  back ;  but  she  battled  on  through 
thickets  of  webbed  huckleberry  and  spiny  nutmeg  scrub 
that  tore  her  unprotected  face  and  bare  arms  and  legs 
until  they  bled.  True  to  her  unerring  sense  of  direc- 
tion, she  finally  emerged  from  the  forest  and  entered 
the  matted  chaparral  that  flanked  it,  crawling  upon  her 
bruised  hands  and  knees  until  she  emerged  near  the 
Hog's  Back. 

Betty  paused  a  moment  to  get  her  breath,  gave  a 
She  repeated  it  a  little  louder,  and  still  there  was  no 
tremulous  whistle  and  waited  anxiously  for  an  answer. 


LONG  SWEETENING  205 

response.  He  must  be  dead,  or  so  desperately  wound- 
ed that  he  could  not  come  to  her,  she  thought.  Where 
could  she  search  for  him?  She  looked  about  her — into 
the  dark  abyss  fon  either  side  of  her,  at  the  forbidding 
forest  through  which  she  had  come,  and  at  the  great 
stretch  of  chaparral  reaching  up  and  away  to  the  East. 

The  full  moon  peeped  over  the  top  of  the  range, 
warning  her  that  she  could  not  remain  there  outlined 
against  the  sky  without  being  observed.  She  gave  the 
bird  call  once  more,  and  strained  her  ears  to  catch  the 
faintest  answer,  but  only  the  croaking  of  frogs  in  the 
meadow  below,  the  shriek  of  a  nighthawk  and  the 
bleating  of  a  fawn  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night.  She 
sat  down  for  a  moment  to  rest  and  collect  her  thoughts, 
and  was  crying  softly  when  a  shadow  appeared  be- 
side her.  She  started,  uttered  a  smothered  cry  of  alarm 
and  saw  him  standing  before  her. 

"Why — Summins !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  raised  her  to 
her  feet.  "What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Are  you  safe  ?"  she  sobbed. 

"Why — yes — of  course.  What  has  happened?  Your 
face  and  arms  are  bleeding.  You're  hurt !" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing — just  a  few  scratches.  I  thought 
you  had  been  wounded,  and  I — I  just  had  to  come." 

"There — don't  cry.  But  why  did  you  do  this?" 

"The  deputy  said  he  hit  you,  and  I  couldn't  bear  t  j 
think  of  you  dying  out  here  alone.  And  they're  going 
to  surround  you  tonight,  and  kill  or  capture  you  in  the 
morning." 

"And  you  swam  the  lake  to  warn  me?" 


2o6  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Yes;  I  couldn't  get  a  boat." 

Betty  was  trembling  with  excitement,  and  her  teeth 
were  chattering  with  cold,  for  the  night  was  chill. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  he  said  reprovingly. 
"It's  all  a  great  mistake — but  we  mustn't  stand  here 
in  the  moonlight — you're  freezing!  Come  to  my  cave 
and  get  warm.  I  can  .start  a  fire  and  screen  it  with  a 
blanket." 

"No;  I  can't.  I  must  get  back,  or  I  may  be  missed." 

"Then  wait  just  a  moment,"  and  throwing  his  coat 
around  her  shoulders  he  turned  away. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"Take  you  home." 

"No — you  must  not — you'll  be  captured!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go  back  alone." 

He  scrambled  down  the  face  of  the  precipice  to  his 
cave,  quickly  put  on  his  bathing-suit  beneath  his  khaki, 
seized  a  blanket  and  hurried  back  to  her.  With  his 
hunting  knife  he  cut  a  slit  in  the  middle  of  the  blanket 
and  put  it  over  her  head. 

"There  you  are !  That  will  protect  you  and  keep  you 
warm.  Come  on." 

Carson's  first  surprise,  admiration  and  contrition 
were  succeeded  by  a  deep  sense  of  irritation  at  his  own 
fatuity.  Now,  he  would  have  to  explain  the  ridiculous 
misunderstanding  that  he  might  in  the  beginning  have 
prevented  with  a  word ;  he  would  be  compelled  to  tell 
a  loyal,  courageous  and  trusting  friend  that  all  the 
mental  distress  and  physical  discomfort  she  had  suffer- 
ed, all  the  dangers  to  which  she  had  exposed  herself 


LONG  SWEETENING  207 

in  order  to  serve  him,  had  been  useless  and  needless. 
But  first,  it  was  of  paramount  importance  that  she 
should  be  returned  to  her  home  without  suffering  any 
worse  consequences  from  exposure  or  discovery.  He 
picked  the  way  for  her  through  the  chaparral,  she  fol- 
lowing close  behind  him,  but  when  they  entered  the 
forest,  through  which  no  moonlight  could  filter,  he  had 
to  take  her  hand  and  lead  her.  Twice  they  heard  the 
thud  of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  muffled  voices  of  the 
deputies  as  they  rode  in  the  night,  and  paused  to  listen 
and  let  them  pass,  Betty  tense  with  excitement  and 
clutching  his  hand  anxiously.  Once  she  stumbled  and 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  held  her  for  an  instant 
while  he  whispered  a  solicitous  inquiry  and  led  her  on. 

"Now  you  must  get  away  as  quickly  as  you  can," 
she  said,  as  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  lake. 

He  made  no  reply  but  stepped  into  the  shadows  of 
the  forest,  stripped  to  his  bathing-suit  and  stood  out 
beside  her.  "Come  on,"  he  ordered. 

"This  is  foolhardy!"  she  protested  impatiently,  as 
she  dropped  the  blanket  and  slid  into  the  water  with 
him. 

"Let  me  tow  you,"  he  suggested. 

"No ;  I  am  able  to  swim  it  easily."  She  swept  along 
by  his  side  measuring  strokes  with  him.  "Slip  away 
while  you  can,"  she  urged  him  in  a  muffled  tone.  "I'll 
get  some  of  father's  old  clothes  and  some  food  for  you. 
Leave  your  moccasins,  and  I'll  make  tracks  enough  to 
keep  them  here  till  you  are  beyond  pursuit." 


208  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Sh-h-h!"  he  cautioned.  "Voices  carry  far  on  the 
water." 

The  moon  had  risen  until  its  rays  struck  the  middle 
of  the  lake,  and  they  were  compelled  to  keep  close  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  on  the  Western  shore,  and  only 
a  few  yards  from  the  narrow  trail  above.  They  were 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  boat-landing  when  Betty 
uttered  a  sharp  exclamation  of  pain  and  began  to 
splash. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  Carson  asked,  as  he  seized  her 
arm  and  supported  her. 

"I've  got  a  cramp!" 

He  threw  an  arm  around  her  body,  drew  her  close 
to  him  and  held  her  firmly.  "Where  is  it?" 

"In  my  calf." 

Me  raised  her  in  the  water  till  her  face  was  even 
with  his.  "Put  your  arms  around  my  neck  and  hold 
tight." 

She  clung  to  him  moaning  with  pain,  her  cheek 
against  his  rough  beard,  her  body  pressed  to  his. 

"Draw  up  your  foot  and  place  the  sole  of  it  on  my 
knee."  He  found  her  groping  foot  and  placed  it  firm- 
ly against  his  leg.  "Now  press  hard!" 

With  both  hands  and  one  foot  free  he  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  sustaining  both  until  the  cramped  muscles  re- 
laxed. 

"I'm  all  right,  now,"  she  said. 

"Don't  let  go,"  he  warned. 

He  turned  in  her  arms,  and  with  her  resting  on  his 
broad  shoulders  towed  her  toward  the  shore.     They 


LONG  SWEETENING  209 

were  only  a  few  yards  from  it  when  Burke  stepped  off 
the  veranda  and  walked  toward  the  landing.  Carson 
stopped  and  held  Betty  with  one  arm  while  he  tread 
water. 

"Let  me  go  now,"  she  whispered. 

"Are  you  sure  you  can  make  it  alone?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

"Yes;  I'm  all  right.    But  you—" 

"Don't  worry!"  he  said  as  he  drew  her  to  him 
with  a  slight  pressure.  "I  didn't  commit  that  robbery. 
I'll  explain  it  all  tomorrow." 

He  continued  by  her  side  for  a  few  strokes,  then 
stopped  and  watched  her  progress.  The  slight  but  un- 
usual ripple  of  the  water  had  not  escaped  the  Sheriff, 
and  as  he  walked  rapidly  down  to  the  shore  he  was 
watching  and  listening.  He  spied  Betty  before  she 
could  reach  the  shelter  of  the  laurels,  and  intercepted 
her. 

"Why,  hello!  Where  have  you  been?"  he  asked  in 
surprise. 

"Swimming." 

"Well,  well,  well!  Isn't  it  a  mite  coldish?" 

"No ;  it's  very  soothing  when  one  can't  sleep." 

"Yes — yes;  I  reckon  it  is."  He  watched  her  while 
she  slipped  on  her  wet  shoes,  but  without  comment, 
and  fell  into  step  behind  her  as  she  went  toward  the 
bungalow.  "But  where  have  you  been?"  he  asked,  as 
the  light  from  the  window  fell  on  her. 

"In  the  lake." 

"Yes;  to  be  sure!  Did  the  lake  scratch  you?" 


210  LONG  SWEETENING 

She  glanced  at  the  scratches  on  her  arms  from  which 
blood  was  flowing,  ready  to  cry  with  vexation  that 
she  had  forgotten  her  cloak  by  the  lakeside,  then  look- 
ed into  his  face  with  pathetic,  pleading  eyes. 

"There — there!"  He  took  her  hand  and  patted  it 
reassuringly.  "It's  all  right.  Don't  tell  me  a  thing  if 
you  really  think  you  oughtn't  to.  I'm  not  going  to 
tangle  you  up  in  this  thing,  if  I  can  help  it." 

If  Betty  had  not  turned  and  fled  she  would  have 
thrown  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  Al- 
most ready  to  collapse  from  the  long  sustained  exer- 
tion and  excitement,  she  had  barely  strength  enough 
to  tear  ofl?  her  wet  bathing-suit,  throw  on  a  bath-robe, 
and  fling  herself  upon  her  bed.  Confused,  bewildered, 
whirled  in  a  maelstrom  of  conflicting  emotions,  she  lay 
trembling  and  moaning  in  a  paroxysm  of  suppressed 
hysteria,  till  a  flood  of  relieving  tears  swept  her  away 
and  left  her  completely  exhausted,  only  half  conscious. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Sheriff  Burke  was  so  astonished  at  the  unexpected 
encounter  with  Betty  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  till 
after  she  had  left  him  that  the  outlaw  might  have  ac- 
companied her.  He  hurried  back  to  the  boat-landing 
and  stood  with  his  hand  on  his  revolver  peering  about 
and  listening. 

"I  surrender!" 

As  the  Sheriff  whirled  he  drew  his  revolver.  In  the 
boat-house  door  not  three  feet  from  him  stood  a  tall, 
bearded  man  in  a  bathing-suit  and  holding  both  hands 
above  his  head. 

"Put  up  your  gun,  Daddy.  It  might  go  off !" 

"Who  in  hell—"  The  Sheriff  fell  back  a  step  or  two, 
fumbled  in  his  pockets  for  a  match,  struck  one,  held  it 
up  and  squinted  through  the  glare  of  it. 

Carson  laughed,  lowered  his  hands  and  stepped  out. 

"Wade  Carson !"  It  was  between  a  gasp  and  a  wail. 

"Sh-h-h!  Not  so  loud!" 

"What  have  you  been  doing — tell  me!" 

"Just  taking  a  little  vacation — and  a  swim.  It  oc- 
curred to  me,  from  the  way  you  and  your  men  have 
been  chasing  me  around  with  bloodhounds  and  shoot- 
ing at  me,  that  possibly  you  might  want  to  see  me." 

"My  God,  Wade!  You  didn't  hold  up  that  stage!  Y-,u 
couldn't  have  done  it." 

"Yes— I  held  it  up." 

"Then  you're  crazy — stark,  staring  crazy!" 

(211) 


212  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  was  pretty  near  it  that  day." 

"Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"I  wanted  some  tobacco." 

"Tobacco!" 

"Yes;  I  stopped  the  driver  at  that  rock  point  and 
borrowed  some.  Your  robber  held  up  the  stage  at  the 
other  rock  point  half  a  mile  nearer  the  springs.  You 
put  your  dogs  on  my  trail  by  mistake  and  have  been 
chasing  me  ever  since." 

"Then,  why  in  the  devil  didn't  you  tell  me?  Here 
you've  been  letting  me  waste  my  time  chasing  you, 
while  that  fellow  was  getting  away." 

"It's  all  right,  Daddy.    He's  safe  in  the  county  jail." 

"In  the  County  Jail!" 

"Where  are  the  oars  ?  I'll  tell  you  about  it  as  soon 
as  I  get  some  clothes  on." 

The  Sheriff  brought  the  hidden  oars,  and  Carson 
rowed  him  across  the  lake,  donned  his  khaki  and  moc- 
casins, picked  up  his  blanket  and  led  the  way  up  the 
trail  toward  the  cave. 

"Say !  We're  liable  to  get  plugged  if  we  go  saunter- 
ing around  here  too  careless  like,"  Burke  warned. 

"Can't  you  call  your  men  off?" 

The  Sheriff  drew  his  revolver  and  fired  three  shots. 
In  a  couple  of  minutes  they  heard  a  deputy  riding  to- 
ward them.     Burke  hailed  him  and  got  an  answer. 

"I've  got  him!"  he  shouted.  "Call  in  the  men  and 
tell  them  to  go  home." 

Lying  by  a  fire  in  the  cave  and  puffing  at  their  pipes 


jlONG  SWEETENING  213 

Burke  listened  to  Carson's  sketchy  narration  of  events 
leading  up  to  the  capture  of  the  outlaw. 

"That's  all  mighty  gratifying  but  not  entirely  satis- 
fying/' observed  the  Sheriff,  when  Carson's  continued 
'Silence  told  him  the  tale  was  ended.  "Where  does  the 
girl  come  in?" 

"Oh,  she's  just  an  incident,"  replied  Carson. 

"Yeah?"  The  Sheriff  eyed  him  with  suspicion.  "I 
thought,  maybe,  she  was  entitled  to  honorable  men- 
tion." 

Carson's  beard  concealed  a  flush  that  persisted  dur- 
ing the  time  it  took  him  to  knock  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe,  refill  it  and  light  it  again. 

"Daddy,  I  have  always  been  what  you  used  to  term 
'gal  shy' ;  but  if  all  girls  are  like  her,  why  I — " 

"They're  not!"  interrupted  the  Sheriff. 

"Anyway,  I  believe  I  have  missed  a  great  deal  in  my 
life." 

"I  had  a  mule  once  that  would  always  shy  at  a  nice 
bale  of  hay  but  would  break  down  a  bob-wire  fence  to 
get  into  a  bunch  of  cactus.  He  died  a  bachelor,  too." 

"Neither  have  I  been  a  fence-breaker;  so  you  can 
understand  why  the  daughter  of  John  Arnold  can 
never  be  anything  more  than  an  incident  in  my  life — 
a  pleasant  one,  to  be  sure,  but  still  only  an  incident." 

"Yeah ;  but  how'd  she  happen  to  take  such  a  shine  to 
you?" 

Carson  told  him  of  their  acquaintance  from  the 
time  she  bobbed  up  in  the  lake  and  ordered  him  off  the 


2i4  LONG  SWEETENING 

place  till  she  crawled  out  of  it  again,  after  risking  her 
life  to  serve  him. 

"She's  certainly  a  humdinger !"  That,  Carson  knew, 
was  the  Sheriff's  superlative  tribute. 

"Yes;  and  it's  up  to  me  to  see  her  tomorrow  and  ex- 
plain that  I  am  not  an  outlaw,  but  still — nobody  in 
particular." 

"Catch  the  afternoon  stage  into  town,  will  you?  I 
may  need  you  as  a  witness." 

"All  right." 

"Then  I  guess  I'll  be  toddling  along." 

Burke  firmly  put  aside  all  of  Carson's  persuasions  to 
stay  the  night  with  him,  or  even  at  the  bungalow.  He 
had  been  away  from  his  office  for  three  days,  and  such 
dawdling  was,  to  the  zealous  old  official,  unconscion- 
able. A  tramp  through  a  rugged  wilderness  at  mid- 
night and  a  three  hours'  ride  into  town  was  only  the 
natural  finish  of  a  good  day's  work  that  would  give 
him  an  early  start  for  the  next.  He  roused  Williams 
sufficiently  to  get  him  to  understand  that  the  bandit 
had  been  captured,  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  away 
in  the  darkness,  humming  the  interminable  "Come-all- 
ye"  with  which  an  unforgettable  grandmother  had 
crooned  him  to  sleep  in  his  infancy — hummed  it  till 
he  slumbered  and,  gently  rocking  in  his  saddle,  dreamed 
the  miles  away. 

Betty  was  awakened,  none  too  early,  Dy  the  excited 
babble  of  the  household,  from  which  she  gathered  that 
the  highwayman  had  been  caught,  and  his  captors  had 
departed.    Had  he  been  captured,  or  had  he  surrender- 


LONG  SWEETENING  215 

ed?  Anyway,  he  had  escaped  death,  and  he  was  guilt- 
less— he  had  told  her  so.  But  was  he?  In  the  morn- 
ing he  had  admitted  his  guilt  and  promised  to  reform; 
in  the  evening  he  had  protested  his  innocence  and 
promised  to  explain.  How  could  his  admissions — 
and  the  evidence — be  explained  ?  Then  came  the  sick- 
ening thought  that  he  had  denied  the  crime  merely  to 
reassure  her,  to  relieve  her  fears  and  to  save  her  further 
anxiety  or  exertion  in  his  behalf.  But  for  her  interven- 
tion and  influence  he  might  have  escaped ;  then,  again, 
he  might  have  killed  or  been  killed.  Anyway,  he  had 
promised  to  reform,  and  his  behavior  justified  her 
faith.  Time  alone  would  tell  whether  or  not  it  had  all 
been  for  the  best.  Matters  of  more  immediate  con- 
cern claimed  Betty's  attention.  She  must  conceal  or 
explain  the  scratches  on  her  face  and  arms,  and  she 
must  rout  the  disgruntled  gamekeeper,  who  was  mak- 
ing a  last  stubborn  stand  behind  the  reckoning  that  the 
robber  "must  of  had  a  pardner  that  was  still  hangin' 
around  somewheres." 

Carson  had  breakfast  by  the  lake  at  the  usual  hour, 
expecting  that  Betty  would  be  there  looking  for  him. 
When  she  did  not  appear  he  returned  to  his  cave  and 
watched  for  her  until  it  was  time  for  him  to  leave  for 
the  stage  road,  lingered  a  little  longer,  and  then  hur- 
ried away.  He  would  be  returning  the  next  day,  ard 
if  she  was  not  eager  to  hear  his  explanation,  she  could 
wait  for  it. 

In  Potterville  he  was  amused  at  the  failure  of  old 
residents  to  recognize  him  under  his  beard  and  tan, 


216  LONG  SWEETENING 

until  one  grizzled  pioneer  stopped  him,  peered  into  his 
face  and  exclaimed: 

"By  hokey!     Ef  it  ain't  Tar-heel !'  " 

The  next  morning  the  highwayman  pleaded  guilty  in 
the  Superior  Court,  and  received  a  sentence  of  twenty 
years  at  hard  labor.  The  Sheriff  was  preparing  to 
take  him  to  the  penitentiary,  and  Carson  was  ready  to 
return  to  the  lake,  when  Jim  Cole,  the  old  County 
Treasurer,  accosted  him. 

"Mind  steppin'  into  my  office  a  minute,  Wade?  I'd 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

"Certainly."  Carson  followed  him  in. 

"Set  down."  Cole  lighted  his  pipe  and  puffed  in  si- 
lence, gazing  out  the  window  and  wrinkling  his  brow 
while  he  tried  to  frame  the  communication  he  had  to 
make. 

"Anything  wrong  ?" 

"You're  a  friend  of  Tom  Burke's,  ain't  you  ?" 

"A  friend!  You  know  that  he  has  been  almost  a 
father  to  me." 

"Then,  I  guess  I  can  talk  to  you." 

"Certainly.  Anything  that  concerns  him  is  of  the 
greatest  interest  to  me." 

"Well — there's  trouble  a-brewin'  for  Tom." 

"What  is  it— political?" 

"Worse'n  that." 

"Financial?" 

"Yes — an'  criminal." 

"Criminal!  Look  here,  Cole!  Don't  you  try  to  tell 


LONG  SWEETENING  217 

"Now,  don't  get  r'iled,  Wade.  Wait  till  I  tell  you—" 

"You  can't  tell  me,  or  any  one  else  in  this  county, 
anything  of  that  sort,  Cole.,, 

"Say!  Look  a  here,  Wade!  Tom  and  me  have  been 
friends — the  clostest  kind  o'  friends — for  more'n 
forty  year,  an'  nobody  knows  him  any  better'n  I  do." 

"Then  you  know  that  a  more  honest  or  upright  man 
never  lived." 

"I'm  ready  to  allow  that  he's  the  best  man  an'  the 
worst  bookkeeper  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"Then  it's  simply  clerical  errors." 

"That's  what  I'd  call  it,  but  the  grand  jury  might 
call  it  embezzlement.  He's  short  in  his  accounts.  I've 
known  it  for  years,  an'  I've  protected  him  as  long  as  I 
can,  but  I  can't  cover  it  up  any  longer,  an'  something 
has  got  to  be  did — an'  that  mighty  damn  quick !  Hit's 
this  way:  as  Sheriff  and  ex-officio  Tax  Collector  all 
the  county's  money  passes  through  his  hands.  For 
years  he  has  been  usin'  it,  not  for  himself,  but  for  the 
county.  If  he  had  to  go  after  a  murderer  or  a  stage 
robber,  he  just  took  the  county  money  an'  never  ren- 
dered an  account  or  filed  a  claim  with  the  Board  of 
Supervisors.  If  anyone  died  an'  didn't  leave  enough 
to  bury  him,  Tom  paid  the  expense.  If  an  orphan  or 
widow  was  in  distress,  he  helped  'em  out  without  hav- 
ing their  names  put  on  the  list  of  county  indigents.  An 
at  the  end  o'  the  year  he  jes  turned  into  the  treasury 
what  money  he  had  left.  Whenever  I  jacked  him  up 
about  it  he'd  laugh  an'  say:  , 


218  LONG  SWEETENING 

"  'Jim,  the  public  money  I  spend  all  goes  for  public 
business,  an'  I  throw  in  what's  left  o'  my  salary  for 
good  measure.  If  I  ain't  a-kickin'  about  what  the 
county  owes  me,  I  guess  nobody  else  has  any  kick 
a-comin'/ 

"No  grand  jury  ever  experted  his  books.  But  things 
have  been  changin'  since  you  left  here.  A  lot  o'  new  set- 
tlers have  been  a-comin'  in  an'  a-meddlin'.  I  had  a  hard 
time  stavin'  off  the  last  grand  jury,  an'  now  another 
one's  in  session.  An'  they're  a-goin'  to  expert  his  books. 
They'll  find  him  short,  an'  they'll  indict  him.  O'  course 
they  can't  convict  him  in  this  county,  but  he'll  have  to 
resign,  an'  it'll  break  his  heart.  It'll  kill  him,  Wade!" 

"Who's  behind  this  thing?" 

"Oh,  nobody  in  partic'lar — unless  it's  that  city  bank- 
er, John  Arnold.  He's  sore  because  Tom  wouldn't 
app'int  his  gamekeeper  a  deputy.  An'  he's  got  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney  a-stirrin'  things  up." 

"Does  the  old  man  know  anything  about  it?" 

"Not  a  word.  I  just  heard  it  to-day  from  one  o'  my 
friends  on  the  grand  jury.  They're  at  work  now  on  the 
Assessor's  books,  an'  will  get  around  to  Tom  next." 

"How  long  will  it  take  them  to  get  through  with  the 
Assessor's  books?" 

"About  a  week.  They're  paid  by  the  day  an*  are 
soldierin'." 

"Is  the  Assessor  friendly?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  stand  by  the  Sheriff?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  219 

"Well — I  guess,  maybe,  you  can  count  on  me  helpin' 
out — a  leetle — so  long  as  it  ain't  anything  that  would 
reflect  on  me.  Do  you  calcalate  it  would  help  out  if  I 
robbed  my  own  safe,  or  burnt  my  books,  or  some  little 
thing  like  that?" 

"No ;  let  me  have  time  to  think  it  over." 

"Well — all  right.  But  don't  wait  too  long,  or  fire's 
liable  to  break  out  right  here  in  my  office." 

Carson  saw  the  Sheriff  off  on  the  afternoon  train 
with  his  prisoner,  then  wired  his  San  Francisco  office 
to  have  the  Chief  of  Police  intercept  Burke  on  his  re- 
turn and  detain  him  a  week  under  any  pretext  that 
could  be  devised.  He  also  wired  for  a  corps  of  expert 
accountants.  The  next  night,  assisted  by  the  Assessor 
and  Carson,  they  went  to  work  secretly  checking  up 
the  books  of  the  office.  After  they  had  tabulated  the  as- 
sessments, they  turned  to  the  delinquent  tax  sales.  The 
difference  would  show  the  amount  that  had  been  col- 
lected by  the  Sheriff.  It  was  while  they  were  working 
on  these  that  one  of  the  accountants  said : 

"Here's  a  sale  of  the  property  of  Caleb  Carson.  Any, 
relative  of  yours,  Mr.  Carson?" 

"My  father  used  to  own  some  land  up  here,"  replied 
Carson,  who  was  deeply  engrossed  with  some  figures. 

When  they  had  finished  with  the  Assessor's  books 
they  took  up  the  license  stubs  in  the  Sheriff's  office,  to 
ascertain  the  amount  that  had  been  collected  for  coun- 
ty licenses.  That  completed,  they  examined  the  ac- 
counts of  the  Treasurer,  showing  what  had  been  paid 
in,  and  finally  reported  that  Sheriff  Burke,  in  the 


220  LONG  SWEETENING 

thirty-five  years  he  had  been  in  office,  had  collected 
eighty-five  thousand  dollars  more  than  he  had  paid 
into  the  treasury.  Carson  immediately  drew  upon  his 
San  Francisco  bank  for  the  amount,  paid  it  to  the 
treasurer  and  awaited  developments. 

The  dilatory  experts  of  the  grand  jury  plodded  along 
laboriously  through  the  same  accounts  and  in  time  got 
approximately  the  same  results. 

"Just  as  I  expected/'  observed  the  foreman  of  the 
grand  jury.  "Tom  Burke's  short  in  his  accounts." 

"No!  You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  the  Treasurer. 
"How  much?" 

"About  eighty-five  thousand  dollars." 

"You  haven't  counted  the  money  in  the  vault  yet." 

"It  isn't  necessary.  Your  books  show  it." 

"Better  count  it.     My  books  might  be  wrong." 

Together  they  counted  all  the  coin  in  sight,  and  the 
result  corroborated  the  report  of  the  experts. 

"Just  as  I  told  you,"  observed  the  foreman. 

"Why,  the  dirty  old  thief !"  The  Treasurer  sat  down, 
dazed  and  bewildered.  "I  jes  can't  believe  it.  There 
must  be  something  wrong  somewheres." 

"The  money  isn't  here." 

"No;  but  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  maybe  it  is," 
and  his  face  brightened  with  hope.  He  rushed  into  the 
vault  and  rolled  out  an  old  nail  keg  covered  with  dust. 
"Maybe  it's  here."  He  knocked  the  head  out  with  a 
hatchet  and  found  it  nearly  full  of  gold.  "By  Ginger! 
Here  it  is!" 


LONG  SWEETENING  221 

They  counted  the  contents  and  found  $85,000. 

"How  does  that  money  happen  to  be  here,  when 
there  is  no  record  of  it  on  your  books  ?"  demanded  the 
foreman. 

"Well,  now,  ain't  that  peculiar,"  and  the  Treasurer 
scratched  his  puzzled  head.  Why,  I  guess  that  must  be 
the  contingent  fund." 

"Contingent  fund!     I  didn't  know  there  was  such  a 
fund." 

"Well,  I  guess  nobody  else  did,  either,  for  the  Sup- 
ervisors haven't  drawn  against  it  since  I  been  in  office." 

"Where  does  it  appear  on  your  books?" 

"Why,  it  don't  appear.  Probably  that's  the  reason 
it's  been  overlooked.  Must  be  bad  bookkeeping,  or  may- 
be the  book  got  lost  before  I  tuck  office." 

"It's  very  peculiar." 

"Darned  if  it  ain't!" 

When  Sheriff  Burke  returned  he  learned  that  his 
books  had  been  experted  and  found  to  be  correct  to  a 
cent,  but  his  system  of  bookkeeping  had  been  unquali- 
fiedly condemned. 

"Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  demanded 
indignantly.  "Criticizing  bookkeeping  that  is  absolutely 
perfect!  And  I've  always  been  skittish  about  it,  too. 
If  the  money  is  all  there,  what  difference  does  it  make 
how  or  where  the  figures  are  put  down — or  wheth<v 
they're  put  down  at  all?" 

"I've  made  arrangements  for  Thompson  to  keep  your 
books  hereafter,"  Carson  told  him,  "just  to  take  all 
that  work  off  your  mind," 


222  LONG  SWEETENING 

"All  right ;  I'll  show  him  how  to  do  it." 
The  Sheriff  never  knew  why  his  closest  friends  al- 
ways afterwards  called  the  County  Treasurer  "Con- 
tingent" Cole. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  full  month  Carson  had  allotted  to  himself  had 
expired,  and  he  was  free  either  to  extend  his  vacation 
or  to  terminate  it,  but  he  found  himself  in  a  quandary, 
wavering  and  undecided.  The  spell  of  the  wild  moun- 
tain life  and  the  prospect  of  a  few  more  days'  com- 
panionship with  Summins  upon  an  intimate  and  sym- 
pathetic basis  was  drawing  him  in  one  direction.  His 
rekindled  resentment  toward  the  unscrupulous  banker 
and  a  hot  desire  for  the  long-deferred  vengeance  was 
driving  him  in  the  other.  Struggling  between  the  two 
his  mind  grasped  the  five-ounce  fishing-rod — for  which 
he  would  have  no  possible  use — and  he  decided  to  go 
back  for  it,  make  up  the  week  he  had  lost  and  tell  Sum- 
mins good-bye  before  resuming  the  legal  grind. 

Then  came  a  telegram  from  Pierce,  his  senior  part- 
ner, urging  his  immediate  return  to  San  Francisco.  His 
disappointment  was  as  keen  as  the  zest  with  which  he 
had  begun  to  anticipate  that  last  week,  but  he  knew 
he  would  not  have  been  summoned  unless  matters  of 
vital  importance  demanded  it.  The  next  train  carried 
him  away,  but  with  the  lingering  hope  that  the  urgency 
might  be  only  temporary,  and  he  could  yet  return  to 
the  lake  for  a  fortnight  later  on.  He  went  directly  to 
his  office  without  waiting  to  bathe  or  shave. 

"I  hated  to  bring  you  back  from  a  vacation  you  had 
so  well  earned  and  so  sadly  needed,',  explained  Pierce, 
"but  Barton  is  laid  up  with  inflammatory  rheumatism, 

(223) 


224  LONG  SWEETENING 

and  I  can't  do  all  the  work  alone."  Carson  repressed  a 
smile,  for  he  knew  how  little  his  senior  partner  had 
done  in  the  last  year.  "How  are  you  feeling?" 

"All  right,"  Carson  assured  him.  "My  outing  did  me 
a  world  of  good." 

"I  can  see  that.  You  look  like  a  new  man;  but  I 
don't  want  you  to  overwork  yourself  again." 

"Oh,  I  feel  equal  to  anything." 

Pierce  shook  his  head  dubiously.  "I  know  you,  Car- 
son. You're  as  strong  as  a  mule,  and  you  never  know 
what  it  is  to  be  tired — until  you  collapse.  I  want  you 
to  drop  this  night  work." 

"I've  been  doing  it  for  years,  and  I'd  be  lost  without 
it.  It's  all  right,  if  I  don't  overdo  it." 

"If  a  man  does  any  of  it,  he  is  doing  too  much  of  it. 
The  man  who  carries  his  business  to  his  meals  and 
then  to  bed  with  him  will  eventually  break  down.  It 
means  shattered  health  and  a  bullet  in  the  brain — if 
he  has  brains  enough  left  to  know  what  is  best." 

Carson  was  not  deceived  by  the  old  man's  casual  as- 
sumption that  the  firm  of  Pierce,  Barton  &  Carson 
would  continue  on  the  same  basis,  and  let  him  ramble 
on  till  he  would  reveal  what  was  on  his  mind. 

"Put  in  eight  or  ten  good  hours'  work  a  day,  then 
drop  it  and  forget  all  about  it.  You  will  soon  find  that 
a  little  relaxation  and  recreation  will  refresh  you  so 
that  you  can  accomplish  as  much  in  a  day  as  you  could 
otherwise  in  a  day  and  a  night.  Why  don't  you  go  in 
for  society?    It's  a  good  pastime — and  good  business." 

"Society!"  Carson  laughed.  "Why,  I  wasn't  broken 


LONG  SWEETENING  225 

to  eat  with  a  fork  till  I  was  17  years  old,  and  where 
I  came  from  they  were  called  'damned  split  spoons/ 
and  regarded  merely  as  a  convenience  for  children  and 
paralytics." 

"Try  the  theaters,  opera,  dominoes,  solitaire — any- 
thing that  will  take  your  mind  off  your  work.  If  you 
don't" — Pierce  shook  his  head  solemnly — "the  finest 
legal  mind  in  the  West  will  be  trying  to  discover  how 
they  put  holes  in  a  Swiss  cheese.  I  guess  we  can  get 
away  with  the  work  without  sitting  up  nights — eh,  Car- 
son?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  might  interfere  with  other  plans,"  he 
replied. 

"Thinking  of  quitting  us  and  going  it  alone?" 

"I  had  thought  of  that." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  would  serve  us  right  if  you  did." 
After  a  pause  he  continued:  "I've  talked  it  all  over 
with  Barton,  and  we  have  a  new  business  arrangement 
to  suggest."  He  eyed  Carson  sharply,  and  failing  to 
detect  the  quickening  of  interest  he  had  anticipated, 
added :  "We  can  make  it  worth  your  while  to  stay  with 
us." 

"I  have  some  special  work  on  hand,  not  connected 
with  the  business,"  explained  Carson. 

"Can't  it  wait?" 

"No;  it  is  urgent." 

"Will  it  occupy  much  of  your  time?" 

"Possibly  all  of  it." 

"Sorry  to  hear  it — very  sorry."  He  reflected  a  mo- 


226  LONG  SWEETENING 

ment.  "Carson,  you  force  me  to  lay  my  cards  on  the 
table." 

"I  thought  I  would." 

"For  a  long  time  I  have  been  shoving  most  of  the 
work  off  on  you  and  Barton.  Now  he  is  flat  on  his 
back  and  may  not  be  up  for  months,  and  I  find  I  am 
too  old,  too  lazy  or  too  worn  to  get  back  into  the  har- 
ness. The  firm  is  up  against  it — unless  you  take  hold 
for  a  time  and  pull  it  through." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  but — " 

"Perhaps,  Carson,  you  have  been  too  busy  with  rou- 
tine work  to  note  the  volume  of  business  that  comes  to 
us  through  our  banking  connections.  We  are  advisory 
counsel  for  half  a  dozen  of  the  best  of  them."  Carson 
suddenly  straightened  in  his  chair.  "Ah!  That  got 
him!"  thought  Pierce. 

"Is  the  San  Francisco  Banking  &  Trust  Co.  among 
them?" 

"No-o,"  admitted  Pierce,  "but  Barton  expects  to 
get  them." 

"What's  your  proposition  ?"  Carson  shot  at  him. 

Pierce  winced.  "If  you'll  take  hold  in  this  emerg- 
ency, Carson,  I'll  retire  in  a  year  and  make  over  my 
interest  in  the  firm  to  you  and  Barton.  I  can  save  up 
enough  in  that  time,  if  I  keep  out  of  the  club  poker 
game,  to  do  me  the  rest  of  my  life.  Is  it  a  trade?" 

"No!"  declared  Carson,  emphatically. 

"Make  it  six  months,  then." 

"No!  If  I'm  to  do  all  the  work  of  the  firm,  I'll  dic- 
tate the  terms." 


LONG  SWEETENING  227 

The  old  lawyer's  shoulders  drooped,  and  he  wet  his 
lips  nervously.  "I  always  told  Barton  that  you  were  a 
calculating,  cold-blooded  individual,  bent  on  bossing 
the  firm  some  day,  but  I  never  thought  you  would 
put  the  skids  under  me  this  way.  What  are  your 
terms  ?" 

"I  will  take  hold  and  try  to  pull  everything  through, 
but  on  one  condition — that  you  retain  your  interest  in 
this  firm  as  long  as  you  live." 

For  a  moment  the  old  man  eyed  Carson  in  speechless 
amazement,  then  shook  his  head  in  perplexity.  "If  it 
wasn't  the  business,  would  you  mind  telling  me  what 
you've  had  on  your  mind  all  these  years?" 

Carson  laughed.  "Nothing  that  concerns  you — iust 
a  little  private  score  to  settle." 

"Then  God  help  the  man — whoever  he  may  be !" 

As  Pierce  was  leaving  the  office  he  threw  an  arm 
affectionately  around  Carson's  shoulders.  "You're 
the  whitest  man  I  know!"  he  said. 

A  conference  with  Barton  at  his  home  and  a  day's 
work  with  the  office  staff  was  sufficient  to  acquaint 
Carson  with  the  business  in  hand,  and  enable  him  to 
give  instructions  concerning  the  urgent  matters  of 
complaints,  demurrers,  notices,  motions,  affidavits, 
stipulations,  stays,  extensions,  transcripts  and  briefs,  of 
which  "time  was  the  essence."  At  six  o'clock  he  left 
the  office  with  the  feeling  that  a  good  day's  work  had 
been  well  done,  and  the  day  was  ended.  While  awaiting 
his  order  at  a  cafe  he  pondered  the  serious  problem 
of  frivolous  diversion  without  reaching  a  decision.  The 


228  LONG  SWEETENING 

hors  d'  oeuvres  and  soup  were  excellent,  he  admitted  to 
the  solicitous  waiter. 

"Thank  you,  sir!" 

But  the  waiter  was  grieved  to  learn  that  the  fish  was 
vile,  and  the  squab  was  not  to  be  compared  with  broil- 
ed mountain  quail. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir !" 

The  astonished  servitor  dodged  the  bones  that  Car- 
son was  carelessly  tossing  over  his  shoulder  into  the 
underbrush  that  should  have  been  behind  him.  Femin- 
ine laughter  recalled  Carson,  and  over  his  demi  tasse 
of  "confounded  chickery"  he  surveyed  the  women  in 
the  place,  mentally  measuring  them  with  the  standard 
he  had  unconsciously  adopted,  and  dismissing  them  in- 
stantly as  not  to  be  compared  with  Summins.  Just  as 
unconsciously  he  strolled  down  to  his  office  and  had 
off  his  hat  and  coat  ready  for  work  before  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  promised  to  play.  Dominoes  at  the 
club  ?  Childish !  Solitaire  at  his  apartment  ?  Idiot's  de- 
light! Theater?  A  mustached,  riding-cropped,  ciga- 
retted  villain  cursing,  and  a  shawled,  diamond-ringed, 
rag-babied  heroine  starving!  Opera?  Desdemona 
yawping  for  fifteen  minutes  after  she  had  been  strang- 
led by  Othello,  or  a  pair  of  yelping  Italians,  fat  enough 
to  hibernate  all  winter,  but  starving  to  death  in  ten 
minutes  in  the  basement  of  Egyptian  Temple,  F.  &  A. 
M! 

The  file-box  labeled  "J.  A."  caught  Carson's  eye. 
That  contained  the  only  game  worth  while.  If  circum- 
stances temporarily  tied  him  to  the  law,  he  could  make 


LONG  SWEETENING  229 

this  his  diversion.  It,  was,  after  all,  merely  a  puzzle  to 
be  solved — get  the  knave  in  his  proper  place — and  it 
would  take  his  mind  off  his  work  more  effectually  and 
completely  than  anything  else.  The  fact  of  the  matter 
was,  he  reflected,  he  had  taken  it  too  seriously — like 
the  man  who  becomes  demented  over  the  fifteen  puzzle 
— and  the  vacation  in  the  mountains  had  been  just  what 
he  needed  to  give  him  the  proper  perspective. 

During  Carson's  absence  his  investigators  had  not 
been  idle,  and  he  found  a  mass  of  press  clippings  and 
memoranda  to  be  read,  sifted,  analyzed  and  digested. 
They  disclosed  that  Arnold  and  his  bank  were  foster- 
ing several  real  estate,  development,  contracting  and 
lumbering  companies,  subsidiary  to  the  main  railroad 
enterprise,  but  they  revealed  no  weakness  in  his  finan- 
cial position,  no  vulnerable  point  of  attack.  Still,  Car- 
son was  convinced  that  the  bank's  stability  depended 
absolutely  upon  the  success  of  these  concerns,  and  if 
one  failed  the  whole  structure  would  be  imperiled.  All 
must  be  watched,  and  at  the  first  sign  of  weakness 
means  must  be  found  to  apply  the  pressure  necessary 
to  precipitate  the  collapse. 

So  the  weeks  slipped  by,  Carson  devoting  his  days 
to  legal  work,  lightened  by  an  increased  clerical  force, 
and  his  nights  to  the  game  of  vengeance,  which  involv- 
ed little  more  than  watchful  waiting,  with  an  occasion- 
al move  calculated  to  impair  Arnold's  credit.  Often  in 
idle  moments  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  mountains 
and  the  days  he  had  spent  with  Summins,  but  in  his 
ruminations  he  seldom  thought  of  her  as  the  daughter 


23o  LONG  SWEETENING 

of  John  Arnold.  Whenever  he  did  it  was  always  with  a 
sense  of  shock — such  as  one  suffers  on  hearing  for  the 
first  time  a  piece  of  bad  news.  He  often  thought  of 
writing  to  her,  explaining  his  sudden  departure  and 
thanking  her  for  the  interest  she  had  manifested  in  him, 
and  once  actually  began  a  letter ;  but  there  was  no  tell- 
ing into  whose  hands  it  might  fall,  and  at  best  it  would 
be  perfunctory  and  inadequate.  Besides,  the  incident 
had  been  closed — not  as  he  had  expected,  to  be  sure, 
but  nevertheless,  finally  and  definitely  closed,  and  no 
purpose  could  be  served  in  reopening  it. 

Almost  completely  isolated  from  the  outside  world, 
it  was  not  until  a  couple  of  weeks  after  the  capture  of 
the  bandit,  when  Arnold  motored  up  for  a  week-end, 
that  Betty,  chafing  under  the  suspense,  learned  the  out- 
come of  the  affair. 

"He  pleaded  guilty  and  received  a  twenty-year  sen- 
tence at  Folsom,"  said  Arnold  in  response  to  her  eager 
questioning. 

"Twenty  years!  It's  outrageous!"  she  declared. 

"When  a  man  deliberately  takes  other  people's  prop- 
erty he  knows  he  is  taking  chances,"  observed  Arnold 
with  a  smile  and  a  shrug.  "If  he  is  caught,  he  has  to 
take  what  the  law  gives  him." 

"But  some  leniency  should  have  been  shown  toward 
a  first  offense." 

"First  offense!"  snorted  Arnold.  "He  was  an  old 
and  persistent  offender.  He  had  a  little  homestead  near 
the  road,  used  to  hold  up  the  stage  regularly,  and  then 
helped  that  senile,  old  duffer  chase  himself !" 


LONG  SWEETENING  231 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  declared  Betty. 

"Nevertheless  it  is  true." 

Twenty  years  in  the  quarries  at  Folsom !  In  twenty 
years  he  would  be  a  broken  old  man  and  she  a  middle- 
aged  woman !  And  but  for  her  he  might  have  escaped ! 

"Can't  you  do  something  for  him — get  him  out  on 
parole,  or  something?"  she  pleaded. 

"I  should  think  you  would  want  him  kept  there  for 
life,  after  all—" 

"No— no!  It's  terrible!" 

Arnold  laughed.  "Don't  worry.  He  doesn't  need 
any  help  now." 

"He  isn't  dead,  is  he  ?"  gasped  Betty. 

"No;  he's  very  much  alive.  He  escaped." 

"Escaped!" 

"Yes;  he  was  in  the  penitentiary  less  than  a  week, 
when  he  made  a  break  in  a  hailstorm  of  bullets  from 
rifles  and  machine-guns  and  got  clean  away." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  of  it!  It  was  just  like  him!" 

"What  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"Oh — er — only  what  happened  up  here — when  they 
were  chasing  him.  /The  Sheriff  had  a  terrible  time  get- 
ting him." 

"Humph!  That  old  woman  couldn't  catch  cold!" 

Betty  had  her  own  views  upon  that  matter,  but  she 
didn't  argue  it.  "What  was  his  name?"  she  asked. 

"Henry  Brown." 

For  a  couple  of  weeks  Betty  searched  daily  among 
the  thickets  and  ravines  in  the  vincity  of  the  Hog's 
Back  in  an  effort  to  locate  the  mysterious  camp,  but 


232  LONG  SWEETENING 

though  she  was  within  a  few  yards  of  it  many  times, 
she  finally  abandoned  her  quest  as  hopeless.  For  some 
unaccountable  reason  she  had  lost  the  zest  for  the 
mountains ;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  that  the 
regular  summer  outing  was  a  bore  and  no  longer  en- 
durable; and,  to  the  equal  amazement  of  Mrs.  Arnold 
and  Williams,  Betty  was  the  first  to  urge  a  return  to 
San  Francisco.  As  a  result  it  was  still  early  September 
when  Carson,  returning  from  the  courts,  met  Betty 
face  to  face  on  Market  Street.  Instinctively  he  half- 
stopped  to  speak  to  her,  but  she  passed  him  with  no 
sign  of  recognition.  The  next  morning  Betty  received 
a  letter  written  in  a  rugged  business  hand  that  was  un- 
familiar and  bearing  a  San  Francisco  postmark : 

"Mr.  dear  Miss  Arnold: 

I  regretted  exceedingly  that  circumstances  call- 
ed me  away  rather  unexpectedly  and  further  con- 
spired to  prevent  my  return.  I  was  therefore  ut- 
terly unable  to  make  my  adieux;  or  to  give  proper 
expression  to  my  gratitude  for  the  privileges  ac- 
corded, the  confidence  bestowed  and  the  interest 
manifested  in  my  behalf.  Please  accept  my  apolo- 
gies for  the  present,  my  thanks  for  the  past  and 
my  best  wishes  for  the  future. 
Very  sincerely, 

Nubbidy." 

"From  whom  was  your  letter,  Betty?"  asked  Mrs. 
Arnold. 

"Oh — nobody  in  particular.  Just  an  apologetic  note 
— from  a  friend,"  she  replied. 


LONG  SWEETENING  233 

It  was  like  him,  she  thought,  to  remain  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, the  last  place  the  officers  of  the  law  would  expect 
to  find  a  mountaineer.  She  wondered  what  he  was  do- 
ing and  how  he  was  living,  but  she  had  no  doubt  of  his 
reformation,  though  he  had  said  nothing  about  it.  She 
read  the  note  again,  and  approved  its  guarded  char- 
acter. The  words,  "for  the  present,"  indicated  an  ex- 
pectation of  seeing  her  sometime,  but  she  felt  assured 
that  he  would  never  seek  a  meeting  in  a  way  that  would 
embarrass  her. 

It  was  not  till  her  coming  out  party,  late  in  Novem- 
ber that  she  heard  from  him  again,  and  then  it  was  a 
plain  card  from  "Nubbidy"  lying  in  a  large  box  of 
maiden-hair  and  lady-slippers,  which,  she  knew  from 
previous  inquiry,  could  have  been  procured  only  at 
the  conservatory  in  Golden  Gate  Park. 

The  excitement  of  Betty's  first  season  in  society  oc- 
cupied her  time  and  her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  al- 
most everything  else,  and  she  was  so  wearied  by  the 
continuous  gayety,  to  which  she  was  unaccustomed, 
that  she  would  have  cut  the  Mardi  Gras  ball  that  closed 
it,  if  she  had  not  been  the  principal  figure  of  a  long- 
planned  group  in  the  pageant.  The  unmasking  dance, 
which  Betty  had  been  sitting  out  in  the  supper  room, 
was  in  progress.  She  was  returning  to  the  ballroom 
with  her  escort  when  she  was  startled  by  the  soft  call 
of  the  sickle-bill  thrush.  By  the  door  stood  a  tall  but 
unmistakable  figure  in  mask  and  domino.  For  an  in- 
stant, only  an  instant,  she  hesitated,  then  went  toward 
him  with  outstretched  hand. 


234  LONG  SWEETENING 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  gasped  in  a  half 
whisper  of  alarm. 

"Merely  watching  the  affair.  I  have  never  learned  to 
dance,"  he  replied,  with  a  friendly  pressure  of  her 
hand. 

"Have  you  been  here  all  the  evening?" 

"Yes;  but  I  was  a  little  doubtful  about  recalling 
myself  to  you." 

"Why?" 

"I  have  passed  you  on  the  street  two  or  three  times, 
and  you  have  always  cut  me,"  he  laughed. 

"Why — I  didn't  see  you.     I  wouldn't  do  that." 

"It  wasn't  like  you,  but  still— under  the  circum- 
stances— " 

"I  told  you  I  was  your  friend."  There  was  nothing 
but  gentle  reproof  in  her  tone. 

"I  know,  and  I  assure  you  I  appreciate — " 

The  music  stopped,  dancers  began  snatching  off 
masks,  and  Betty's  escort  grabbed  at  Carson's.  He  felt 
his  wrist  seized  in  an  iron  grasp  and  his  arm  twisted 
till  he  winced  with  pain.  Before  he  could  recover  him- 
self the  masked  stranger  had  disappeared. 

"Who  was  that  fellow?"  he  demanded  of  Betty. 

"A  friend  of  mine,"  and  she  laughed  at  his  discom- 
fiture. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

One  blustering  night  in  March,  when  Carson's  mind 
was  groping  about  somewhere  in  that  vague  and  misty 
no-man's-land,  which  lies  between  the  day's  battles  and 
the  night's  dreams,  there  came  through  the  darkness 
the  sound  of  a  strange  voice,  clear  and  distinct,  say- 
ing: 

"Caleb  Carson's  property  sold  for  taxes !" 
Carson  was  instantly  wide  awake,  alert-  and  listen- 
ing, then  realized  that  it  was  not  a  voice  from  this 
or  the  other  world,  but  merely  a  trick  of  the  sub- 
conscious- memory  echoing  phonographically  the  casu- 
al remark  of  an  accountant  recorded  months  before. 
Cogitating  upon  it  he  recalled  his  father's  continual 
anxiety  over  the  taxes  on  the  lake  property  and  the 
relief  he  invariably  expressed  when  he  had  earned 
enough  from  his  winter  trapping  and  summer  labor 
to  pay  them.  If  his  father  had  ever  failed  to  meet 
them,  he  had  never  mentioned  it;  and  he  had  never 
owned  any  other  property.  It  was  peculiar — and 
Worthy  of.  investigation.  The  next  morning  Carson 
wrote  to  Sheriff  Burke,  requesting  him  to  examine 
the  county  records,  and  in  a  couple  of  days  received 
an  answer.  The  property  had  been  sold  to  the  State 
for  delinquent  taxes  in  1890.  It  was  in  October  of  thac 
year  that  his  father  had  died,  and,  of  course,  the  pay- 
ment due  in  November,  usually  deferred  to  the  last  pos- 
sible moment,  had  not  been  made. 

(235) 


236  LONG  SWEETENING 

At  the  next  sentence  in  the  Sheriff's  letter  Carson 
jumped.  "Deed  of  Public  Administrator  to  John  Ar- 
nold, dated  May  2j,  1891,"  it  read.  There  had  never 
been  a  reconveyance  from  the  State  of  California  to  the 
estate  of  Caleb  Carson,  the  administrator's  sale  of  the 
property  was  invalid,  Arnold's  title  was  worthless  and 
Carson  was  the  legal  owner.  He  wondered  how  the 
fortuitous  blunder  could  have  been  made.  Why,  the 
Sheriff  had  not  reported  his  delinquent  tax  sales  until 
he  "happened  to  remember  them."  After  all,  Daddy 
Burke's  system  of  bookkeeping  had  something  to  rec- 
ommend it.  Without  wasting  a  moment  Carson  set 
the  machinery  of  the  law  in  motion  to  remove  the 
cloud  from  his  title.  He  paid  the  back  taxes,  penal- 
ties and  accumulated  interest  to  the  state,  received 
a  reconveyance  of  the  property  to  the  estate  of  Caleb 
Carson  and  forwarded  the  papers  to  the  Public  Ad- 
ministrator with  a  request  for  the  necessary  supple- 
mentary proceedings.  In  due  time  he  would  receive 
a  final  decree  of  distribution  to  himself  as  the  sole 
heir  of  Caleb  Carson.  Then  he  would  order  John 
Arnold  off  the  place  as  summarily  as  he  himself  had 
been  ousted  years  before. 

In  the  worries  and  anxieties  of  a  financial  battle 
involving  millions  Arnold  would  have  had  little  time 
to  bother  about  the  title  to  the  few  acres  of  mountain 
land  he  had  presented  to  his  daughter  on  her  eighteenth 
birthday,  even  if  he  had  known  it  was  under  attack. 
The  cost  of  his  colossal  enterprise,  far  exceeding  all 
estimates,  had  absorbed  nearly  all  the  funds  at  his 


LONG  SWEETENING  237 

disposal,  and  it  was  still  far  from  completion.  Rely- 
ing upon  the  profuse  and  enthusiastic  assurances  of 
support  and  co-operation  he  had  received  from  the 
Eastern  roads,  he  had  appealed  to  them  for  financial 
assistance  and  had  been  curtly  reminded  that  it  was 
contingent  upon  the  completion  of  his  line  to  the  con- 
necting point.  He  exhausted  every  legitimate  resource 
and  saw  himself  facing  ruin — just  for  the  want  of  the 
few  millions  necessary  to  bring  his  plans  to  fruition — 
and  millions  were  lying  idle  in  the  bank!  He  hesi- 
tated just  long  enough  to  cloak  his  designs  with  the 
semblance  of  legality.  With  his  right  hand  he  is- 
sued railroad  bonds;  with  his  left  he  lent  the  bank's 
deposits  upon  them.  When  there  were  no  more  bonds, 
he  had  recourse  to  the  stock  issued  to  him  and  his  ac- 
sociates  at  a  ridiculously  low  figure,  and  hypothecated 
it  with  the  bank  at  an  unconscionable  valuation  as 
more  funds  were  required.  With  the  completion  of 
the  road  the  securities  would  jump  to  par.  Then 
they  could  dispose  of  their  holdings,  repay  the  loans 
and  clean  up  millions. 

Arnold  was  not  in  the  least  perturbed  when  he  re- 
ceived a  notification  from  the  Clearing  House  that 
under  the  advice  of  counsel  he  must  either  submit  the 
books  of  the  San  Francisco  Banking  &  Trust  Co. 
to  expert  examination  or  make  arrangements  to  clea 
through  another  bank.  He  promptly  effected  the  ar- 
rangement suggested  and  made  mental  note  of  the  fact 
that  Pierce,  Barton  &  Carson  were  the  counsel  re- 
ferred to. 


238  LONG  SWEETENING 

After  the  withdrawal  of  several  large  accounts  Ar- 
nold suddenly  discovered  that  the  bank's  reserve  was 
dangerously  low — that  the  funds  on  hand  were  barely 
sufficient  to  continue  business  under  the  most  favor- 
able conditions.  Futile  efforts  to  call  in  some  loans 
and  to  obtain  others  forced  the  conclusion  that  money 
was  exceedingly  tight.  To  the  fact  that  Pierce,  Bar- 
ton &  Carson  were  frequently  mentioned  in  his  nego- 
tiations he  attached  no  significance,  beyond  the  con- 
clusion that  the  firm  must  be  extremely  conservative. 
He  suddenly  realized  that  the  bank's  condition  was 
perilous ;  that  the  slightest  financial  flurry  or  the  with- 
drawal of  any  considerable  amount  would  force  its 
suspension. 

From  the  very  beginning  of  his  career  Arnold  had 
encountered  one  obstacle  after  another,  meeting  each 
in  turn  confidently  and  surmounting  it  triumphantly, 
only  to  find  himself  confronted  by  another  still  more 
formidable.  With  the  indomitable  courage  and  confi- 
dence that  characterized  the  man,  he  attacked  the 
prodigious  task  that  lay  before  him.  In  a  month  of 
hectic  days,  and  sleepless  nights  he  increased  the  capi- 
tal stock  of  the  bank,  sold  shares  to  personal  and 
business  friends  and  urged  them  upon  his  employees. 
He  opened  branch  banks  for  night  and  day  business, 
advertised  extensively  an  increase  in  interest  on  de- 
posits and  employed  a  large  force  to  solicit  new  ac- 
counts. Physically  and  mentally  at  the  breaking  point 
and  sustained  only  by  his  inflexible  will,  he  stuck  to  his 
desk,  almost  a  stranger  in  his  own  home,  until  the 


LONG  SWEETENING  239 

chashier's  report  showed  a  flood  of  gold  pouring  into 
the  vaults  and  his  most  sanguine  expectations  more 
than  realized. 

"Thank  God !  It's  over !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  rose 
and  closed  his  desk  with  a  snap. 

With  the  reaction  came  the  "chill  of  exhaustion.  For 
an  instant  he  was  weak  and  tremulous,  but  he  shook  it 
off,  braced  himself  and  strode  through  the  bank  to  his 
car  with  his  habitual  confidence  and  arrogance. 

Carson,  passing  at  that  moment,  stopped,  turned  and 
scrutinized  him.  He  had  not  been  unaware  of  the 
bank's  precarious  situation,  and  he  had  done  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  weaken  it;  he  had  been  well  in- 
formed concerning  the  desperate  efforts  at  rehabilita- 
tion, and  had  anticipated  their  failure;  but  in  Arnold's 
bearing  he  read,  to  his  deep  chagrin,  his  own  failure 
and  the  banker's  success. 

Arnold  was  driven  directly  to  his  palatial  home, 
and  though  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  a  hasty  and 
meager  breakfast,  he  refused  to  wait  for  dinner,  sum- 
moned his  valet  and  flung  himself  into  bed  as  soon  as 
his  clothing  could  be  stripped  from  him. 

"Draw  the  shades,"  he  ordered,  "and  under  no 
circumstances  am  I  to  be  disturbed." 

Before  the  door  was  softly  closed  he  was  asleep, 
and  before  he  had  slept  five  minutes,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  chaos  was  crashing  about  his  head.  He  sprang 
up  with  an  oath,  and  with  the  bed  swaying  dizzily  un- 
der him  tried  to  collect  his  scattered  faculties.  Above 
the  rumbling  uproar,  punctuated  by  crashes,  rose  the 


240  LONG  SWEETENING 

shrieks  of  women  and  the  shouts  of  men.  He  slid 
from  the  bed,  started  across  the  darkened  room  and 
stumbled  over  a  prostrate  chair.  As  he  regained  his 
feet  the  floor  gave  a  mighty  lurch  and  flung  him 
headlong  against  the  wall.  Clinging  to  it  he  fumbled 
for  the  light  switch  that  must  be  near  by.  The  door 
flew  open,  and  Mrs.  Arnold,  clad  only  in  her  night- 
gown, screamed: 

"John !    John !    It's  the  end  of  the  world !" 

"Don't  get  hysterical,"  he  growled.  "It's  only  a 
little  earthquake." 

She  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck  .and  begged  him 
to  save  her.  He  thrust  her  aside  and  fumbled  along 
the  wall. 

"Where's  that  light  switch?" 

"All  is  darkness — and  death!"  groaned  Mrs.  Ar- 
nold. 

"Damn!"  The  earth-tremor  subsided.  "There! 
It's  all  over,"  he  assured  her,  and  started  toward 
the  window.  The  floor  was  suddenly  jerked  from 
beneath  his  feet,  and  he  was  flung  heavily  against  a 
chest  of  drawers.  A  shower  of  plaster  crashed  up- 
on him,  and  for  a  moment  he  lay  half-buried  and 
stunned.  Slowly  he  crawled  from  under  the  debris, 
made  his  way  to  the  window  and  stood  clinging  to  the 
casement  till  the  tremors  ceased.  He  raised  the  shade, 
expecting  to  find  the  city  in  ruins,  and  was  aston- 
ished to  see  it  in  the  half-light  of  the  early  morning 
stretched  out  before  him,  placid,  peaceful  and  appar- 
ently undisturbed.     His  eyes  fell  to  the  street  below, 


LONG  SWEETENING  241 

littered  here  and  there  with  fallen  chimneys,  and  he 
saw  men,  women  and  children,  scantily  clad,  fleeing 
from  their  homes  in  mad  terror.  A  wraith  of  a  woman 
in  a  chemise  was  flying  down  the  hill  with  an  empty 
perambulator.  A*  fat  man,  attired  only  in  an  undervest 
and  gripping  a  handful  of  cigarettes,  was  jauntily  re- 
assuring a  group  of  night-clad  women. 

"Don't  get  excited!"  he  begged.  "Don't  get  ex- 
cited.    Everything's  all  right!" 

The  man  put  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth  and  scratched 
a  match  on  his  bare  thigh.  With  one  startled  glance 
at  his  nudity  he  snatched  a  flowered  kimono  from 
a  woman's  hands  and  fled  down  the  street  with  it  over 
his  arm. 

"How  can  you  laugh  in  the  face  of  death?"  Mrs. 
Arnold  interpolated  in  her  frantic  prayers  for  safety 
and  protection. 

"Don't  get  excited!     Everything's  all  right!" 

Arnold  picked  up  his  bedroom  clock.    It  had  stopped 

at  5:15. 

"Half  an  hour's  sleep,"  he  muttered.  Mrs.  Arnold, 
still  groveling  on  the  floor,  burst  into  a  peal  of  hysteri- 
cal laughter.  "What's  the  matter,  Elizabeth?  I  tell 
you  it's  all  right!"  He  raised  her  to  her  feet  and 
repeated  and  reiterated  his  assurances. 

"But  it's  morning,  John — morning!"  she  gasped, 
and  went  into  another  convulsion,  suddenly  checked  as 
she  stared  at  him  open-mouthed.  Then  she  slithered 
to  the  floor. 

Arnold  felt  a  hot  trickle  down  his  cheek,  put  up 
his  hand  and  found  it  smeared  with  blood. 


242  LONG  SWEETENING 

"The  whole  city's  burning  !"  he  heard  one  of  the 
servants  shout. 

He  rushed  to  an  upper  window  and  looked  out.  In 
half  a  dozen  widely  separated  localities  clouds  of 
flame-shot  smoke  were  rolling  skyward.  He  dashed 
to  the  telephone.  It  was  dead.  He  shouted  an  order 
for  his  car  and  hurriedly  dressed  while  it  was  be- 
ing brought  to  the  door. 

"Down  town !"  he  ordered. 

As  he  was  whirled  down  the  street  he  glanced  ap- 
prehensively from  one  to  another  of  the  conflagrations 
gaining  headway  every  moment.  He  was  oblivious  to 
the  knots  of  half-dressed  men  and  women  staring 
silently  into  the  distance  or  excitedly  narrating  their 
experiences.  The  car  stopped.  On  the  sidewalk 
scores  of  men  and  women  lay  under  blankets,  some 
still  in  death,  others  shrieking  in  agony. 

"What's  this?"  demanded  Arnold. 

"Hospital,  sir,"  replied  the  chauffeur. 

"Damn  it !    I  want  to  go  to  the  bank !" 

A  policeman,  seeing  the  blood  on  Arnold's  face, 
stepped  to  the  side  of  the  car  and  inquired  : 

"Are  you  hurt,  sir?" 

"No;  just  a  scratch  from  falling  plaster." 

"Then  I'll  have  to  commandeer  that  car." 

Arnold  started  to  protest  as  a  firm  hand  gripped 
his  arm.    "Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"No — and  I  don't  care  a  damn !  Get  out — or  come 
along  and  help." 


LONG  SWEETENING  243 

Arnold  climbed  out  and  saw  his  car  driven  rapidly 
away.  He  looked  for  a  street  car,  saw  one  and  hur- 
ried to  it,  only  to  find  it  standing  deserted.  He  turned 
and  tramped  doggedly  toward  the  bank  a  mile  away. 
Within  a  few  blocks  he  was  swept  back  by  a  mob 
of  men,  women  and  children,  who  had  already  been 
driven  from  their  homes  in  the  poorer  quarter  of  the 
city — a  strangely  dumb  and  staring  mob,  bending  un- 
der grotesque  burdens  of  useless  junk.  To  the  first 
articles  their  frenzied  hands  had  grasped  in  the  mo- 
ment of  disaster,  now  their  only  possessions,  they  clung 
with  all  the  senseless  tenacity  of  drowning  men,  as 
they  plodded  blindly  and  aimlessly  before  the  conflagra- 
tion roaring  and  crashing  behind. 

Arnold  fought  his  way  through  to  a  cross  street 
and  hurried  on,  breathing  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  saw 
the  bank  building  still  standing,  unharmed.  The  near- 
est fire  was  half  a  block  away,  the  fire  department  was 
efficient  and  the  structure  was  fireproof.  There  was 
nothing  but  the  small  branches  to  worry  about,  and 
they  could  easily  be  replaced.  He  started  up  the  steps 
A  soldier  pressed  a  rifle  against  his  chest. 

"Get  out  of  here  !" 

"But  I'm  the  president  of  this  bank." 

"You  couldn't  go  in  there  if  you  were  President  of 
the  United  States." 

Arnold  joined  the  crowd  that  the  military  was  herd- 
ing up  the  hill  from  the  banking  district.  "What's 
the  matter  with  the  fire  department?"  he  inquired,  as 
he  noted  that  the  fires  were  gaining  headway. 


244  LONG  SWEETENING 

"No  water.  The  earthquake  broke  the  mains,"  he 
was  informed. 

All  day  Arnold  milled  with  the  mob  driven  block  by 
block  Westward.  All  night  he  sat  on  Nob  Hill  and 
watched  the  roaring  inferno  below,  into  which  one 
landmark  after  another  dissolved  and  disappeared,  and 
the  sea  of  flames  sweeping  far  away  in  the  Southern 
distance.  In  the  morning  the  drive  had  overtaken 
him.  Another  day  of  aimless  tramping — another  night 
of  senseless  watching — with  no  thought  of  food  or  rest. 
Four  hundred  city  blocks  a  seething  mass,  from  which 
one  blazing  building  after  another  shot  skyward,  a 
giant  dynamite  bomb! 

At  last  it  was  checked.  Slowly  it  subsided  into  a 
seemingly  endless  stretch  of  smouldering  brick  and 
twisted  steel. 

Wade  Carson,  on  a  tour  of  inspection  with  the 
Citizens'  Committee,  found  John  Arnold,  almost  un- 
recognizable under  smears  of  blood-stained  soot  and 
grime,  his  clothing  in  tatters  and  his  shoes  smoking, 
mechanically  tossing  hot  bricks  with  blistered  hands 
from  the  ruins  of  his  bank.  And  it  was  Carson's 
machine  that  salvaged  the  pitiable  derelict  and  left  him 
to  the  restorative  care  of  a  half-distracted  family.  But 
there  was  no  pity  in  Carson's  soul — only  the  fear  that 
a  common  calamity  had  forestalled  him.  One  may  re- 
joice at  the  downfall  of  an  enemy,  but  one  cannot  ex- 
ult— gloat — unless  one  has  been  instrumental  in  caus- 
ing it. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

After  the  fire  came  feverish  weeks  of  frantic  labor 
to  save  a  banking  system  that  consisted  of  red-hot 
vaults  buried  beneath  smouldering  ruins.  What  they 
contained  was  problematical,  and  even  if  their  contents 
were  intact  and  had  been  accessible,  the  demands  of 
depositors  would  force  the  suspension  of  the  soundest 
bank  in  twenty- four  hours.  Panic  and  pestilence  men- 
aced all  that  the  conflagration  had  spared,  and  the 
credit,  the  future,  the  very  existence  of  the  city  by 
the  Golden  Gate  was  at  stake. 

Carson,  high  in  the  councils  of  the  committee, 
•worked  side  by  side  with  John  Arnold,  fully  restored  to 
his  dynamic  capacity.  A  series  of  legal  holidays  was 
proclaimed  to  give  the  banks  time  to  let  their  vaults 
cool,  dig  their  resources  out  of  the  debris,  convert 
their  securities  into  cash  and  prepare  for  the  resump- 
tion of  business.  Restrictions  upon  the  amount  of 
withdrawals  and  agreements  of  mutual  support  to  save 
all  from  liquidation  were  formulated  and  adopted. 

Arnold's  bank,  with  the  most  rigid  restrictions  up- 
on depositors,  was  the  last  to  open,  and  its  suspension 
would  have  speedily  followed  if  Carson  had  not  •de- 
vised the  issuance  of  Clearing  House  certificates  in 
lieu  of  currency,  and  induced  that  institution  to  ex- 
tend its  support  to  the  San  Francisco  Banking  &  Trust 
Co. 


(245) 


246  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Carson,"  said  Ar- 
nold, on  meeting  him  soon  afterward. 

"You  needn't  be,"  snapped  Carson,  and  turned  his 
back. 

So  far  as  appearances  were  concerned  the  banks  had 
been  restored  to  their  previous  stability;  Arnold  had 
re-established  his  branches  and  resumed  his  campaign 
to  increase  deposits,  and  Carson  had  returned  to  the 
routine  of  his  practice,  when  at  luncheon  one  day  he 
encountered  the  State  Bank  Examiner,  with  whom 
he  had  been  closely  associated  during  the  reconstruc- 
tive period. 

"I  suppose  the  banks  are  still  a  little  weak  and 
shaky  after  the  strain,"  observed  Carson,  "like  typhoid 
patients  in  convalesence." 

"On  the  contrary,  they  are  all,  with  one  exception, 
strong  and  healthy,  and  speculation,  not  the  fire,  is 
responsible  for  the  condition  of  the — "  Carson  held 
his  breath — "exception." 

"Arnold  has  always  been  more  of  a  speculator  than  a 
banker,"  hazarded  Carson. 

The  official  flushed.  "I  didn't  say  it  was  Arnold's 
bank." 

"No;  but  I  know  it  is,"  declared  Carson.  "He's 
an* able  man  and  should  be  able  to  pull  through — if  he 
is  given  a  chance." 

The  Examiner  gave  him  a  shrewed  glance.  "Are 
you  the  bank's  attorney?"  he  asked. 

"No;  neither  have  I  any  financial  interest  in  it, 


LONG  SWEETENING  247 

but — "  a  smile  and  a  shrug  conveyed  the  desired  im- 
pression. 

"I  am  giving  him  every  possible  chance.  Though 
his  failure  would  not  endanger  any  other  just  now, 
still  it  would  inevitably  cause  uneasiness  and  suspicion 
that  is  better  avoided.  But,  at  the  same  time,  I  must 
protect  the  depositors  and  myself.  I  merely  ordered 
him — this  is  in  strict  confidence — to  call  in"  some  loans 
that  were  not — that  I  feared  were  insufficiently  se- 
cured— in  order  to  increase  the  reserve." 

"Of  course — hypothecated  stock  of  other  corpora- 
tions in  which  he  is  interested,,,  guessed  Carson. 
"That  will  also  enable  him  to  maintain  the  larger  bal- 
ances Eastern  correspondents  are  demanding  from 
the  local  banks." 

"Certainly." 

The  interview  not  only  confirmed  Carson's  previous 
suspicions  but  furnished  exact  information  of  existing 
conditions.  The  whole  financial  fabric  woven  by  Ar- 
nold was  rotten  and  would  fall  to  pieces  at  the  slight- 
est touch.  Pending  his  compliance  with  the  Bank 
Examiner's  order  the  first  demand  for  a  dollar  that 
could  not  be  immediately  met  would  be  sufficient.  Ar- 
nold's situation  must  be  desperate,  and  in  his  despera- 
tion he  would  hesitate  at  nothing. 

Carson  had  already  withdrawn  every  credit  and 
recalled  every  loan  over  which  he  had  any  advisory 
influence,  and  the  only  client  who  now  had  extensive 
dealings  with  Arnold's  bank  was  Mrs.  Coleman.  Her 
estate  had  been  distributed  to  her  during  Carson's 


248  LONG  SWEETENING 

vacation,  and  under  the  advice  of  Barton,  angling  for 
another  client,  had  been  placed  with  the  San  Francisco 
Banking  &  Trust  Co.  As  it  consisted  principally  of 
large  real  estate  holdings,  of  which  no  improper  use 
could  be  made,  Carson  had  continued  to  collect  her 
income  from  the  bank  quarterly,  under  a  general  power 
of  attorney.  Now  he  recalled  that  $50,000  worth  of 
negotiable  bonds,  which  might  be  "borrowed"  in  an 
emergency,  were  included,  and  he  had  no  doubt  Ar- 
nold would  resort  to  that  desperate  expedient,  if  he 
were  sufficiently  pressed. 

Carson  called  a  clerk  and  sent  him  to  the  bank  with 
instructions  to  ask  for  all  of  Mrs.  Coleman's  deeds, 
mortgages  and  securities  and  to  ascertain,  without  dis- 
closing his  purpose,  if  the  bonds  were  there. 

Arnold,  sitting  behind  his  desk  in  his  private  office, 
was  facing  Baron  von  Meyer,  who,  on  account  of  long 
and  faithful  service,  had  recently  been  made  manager 
of  one  of  the  new  branches. 

"I  am  informed,  Von  Meyer,  that  you  are  short  in 
your  accounts/'  said  Arnold,  fixing  him  with  an  accus- 
ing eye. 

"You  are  misinformed,  sir !"  replied  the  Baron  with 
dignity. 

Arnold  handed  him  a  slip  of  paper.  "Isn't  that  your 
signature  ?" 

The  Baron  glanced  at  it.  "Certainly,"  he  admitted 
with  a  smile. 

"Then  you  admit  that  you  have  taken  $500  from 
the  bank  and  left  this  I.  O.  U.?" 


LONG  SWEETENING  249 

"Why— certainly." 

"You  are  familiar  enough  with  banking  rules  to 
understand  that  that  is  embezzlement,  are  you  not?" 
"Embezzlement !"    The  Baron  stared  at  him  aghast. 
"That's  what  I  said." 

"Technically,  it  may  be,  but  you  know  that  it  has 
always  been  customary  when  any  official  or  employee 
needed  a  small  amount  of  cash  temporarily — why,  you 
yourself  have — " 

"Never  mind  my  affairs!  We  are  talking  about 
you!"  roared  Arnold. 

"A  bill  for  a  surgical  operation  was  presented,  and 
I  merely  took — " 

"I  don't  care  why  you  took  it.  You  took  it,  and 
that  is  sufficient.  Your  resignation  is  accepted — and 
if  that  money  is  not  returned  when  the  bank  opens 
for  business  tomorrow  morning,  I  will  send  you  to 
the  penitentiary." 

"I  have  paid  more  than  that  upon  the  employee's 
stock  apportioned  to  me.    I  will  turn  that  over — " 

"I  don't  intend  to  have  recourse  to  your  personal 
effects  for  reimbursement.  You  heard  what  I  said. 
Get  out!" 

The  telephone  on  Arnold's  desk  rang. 
"Yes?" 

"This  is  Carson — of  Pierce,  Barton  &  Carson,"  he 
was  informed. 

"Yes.    What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Carson  ?"  asked 
Arnold  briskly. 
"I  want  to  see  you." 


250  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  shall  be  in  my  office  during  banking  hours  today, 

Mr.  Carson." 

"I  want  to  see  you  at  my  office." 

"Isn't  that  rather  an  unusual  request?" 

"Possibly  unusual — but  not  unwarranted." 

"If  you  wish  to  see  me,  sir,  you  may  call  at  my 

office,   and — send   in  your  card,"   responded!  Arnold 

tartly. 

"Oh,  it's  hardly  worth  while.     I  merely  wanted  to 

get  some  information  concerning  those  Coleman  bonds. 

Good  bye." 

Carson  sat  at  his  office  desk  with  his  open  watch 

in  his  hand. 

"If  he  is  guilty  he  will  be  here  in  fifteen  minutes," 

he  decided,  and  waited  confidently. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Carson  looked  forward  to  the  interview  with  all 
the  savage  eagerness  of  a  duellist  about  to  face  his 
deadliest  enemy,  with  time,  place  and  weapons  of  his 
own  selection.  In  half  the  allotted  time  Arnold's  card 
lay  before   him. 

"Tell  him  I  am  very  busy,"  he  ordered,  "but  will 
probably  be  able  to  see  him  within  the  next  half  hour." 

Arnold  was  kept  waiting  the  full  time,  and  before 
he  was  admitted  Carson  instructed  his  stenographer 
to  sit  behind  the  open  door  of  the  adjoining  room  and 
take  notes  of  the  conversation.  Carson  was  startled  at 
the  change  in  the  banker's  appearance.  The  full  florid 
face  had  grown  pasty  and  sagged  at  the  jowls;  his 
eyes,  always  bold  and  confident,  were  shifty  and  eva- 
sive; the  shoulders  once  squared  belligerently  had  be- 
gun to  droop  under  the  weight  of  his  sagging  paunch ; 
his  attire,  always  modish  and  immaculate,  showed  in- 
definable evidence  of  neglect,  and  the  once  dominat- 
ing and  commanding  figure  seemed  to  have  .withered 
and  shrunk  into  senile  impotence.  Altogether  he  ap- 
peared to  have  aged  ten  years  in  as  many  months. 

"You  wished  to  see  me,  Mr.  Carson."  Arnold's 
tone  was  almost  truculent. 

"Sit  down!"  It  was  more  of  a  command  than  an 
invitation.  "As  I  told  yoii  over  the  telephone  I  wanted 
to  see  you  about  Mrs.  Coleman's  bonds." 

"Is  Mrs.  Coleman  your  client?" 

(251) 


252  LONG  SWEETENING 

"She  is.  I  suppose  of  course  you  are  ready  to  de- 
liver them  upon  demand." 

Arnold  glanced  up  sharply  and  settled  himself  in 
his  chair  before  he  answered:  "Upon  Mrs.  Cole- 
man's demand." 

"At  once?" 

"If  she  demands  them." 

"You  are  familiar  with 'her  signature?" 

"Yes." 

"Here  is  our  general  power  of  attorney  from  Mrs. 
Coleman.  I  will  send  a  clerk  with  my  personal  receipt 
to  get  them." 

"When?" 

"Now." 

"I  cannot  deliver  them  today." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  they  are  not  in  the  bank." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"In  New  York." 

"Are  you  quite  certain?" 

"Of  course." 

"Who  sent  them  there?" 

"I  did." 

"Personally,  or  by  an  employe  upon  your  direction  ?" 

"I  sent  them  personally." 

"For  what  purpose?" 

"For  greater  security.     We  did  not  feel  that  our 
securities  were  entirely  safe  in  our  emergency  quarters 
require  to  New  York." 
after  the  fire,  so  I  sent  all  that  we  did  not  immediately 


LONG  SWEETENING  253 

"Here  is  a  written  demand  for  their  delivery. 
Please  acknowledge  receipt." 

Arnold  hesitated.  "Hold  the  demand  until  I  can 
get  them  here,  won't  you?"  he  requested. 

"No;  I  am  making  the  demand  now,  and  I  shall 
expect  them  a  week  from  today.  That  'will  give  you 
time  to  wire  and  get  them  here." 

"Very  well."  Arnold  took  the  pen  and  signed. 

Carson  was  convinced  that  the  banker  was  lying, 
that  he  had  either  sold  or  hypothecated  the  bonds,  ex- 
pecting to  replace  them  when  he  had  tided  himself 
over  the  emergency  that  had  prompted  their  appro- 
priation. Technically  the  crime  of  embezzlement  was 
complete  upon  Arnold's  failure  to  deliver,  but  Carson 
knew  it  would  be  useless  to  begin  a  prosecution  until  he 
had  proof  of  the  misuse  of  'the  bonds,  for  the  mere 
sending  of  them  to  New  York  would  not  establish 
criminal  intent.  He  would  have  to  wait  a  week  and 
take  a  chance  that  Arnold  would  be  unable  to  raise  the 
$50,000  necessary  to  replace  the  bonds.  If  the  banker 
had  already  been  reduced  to  the  dangerous  expedient 
of  using  trust  funds,  he  would  not  be  able  to  find  that 
amount  without  ruinous  sacrifices. 

The  next  morning  he  read  in  the  newspapers  that 
Baron  von  Meyer,  manager  of  one  of  Arnold's  banks, 
had  blown  out  his  brains,  and  there  was  a  guarded  in  - 
terview  in  which  Arnold  expressed  surprise  and  grief. 
After  paying  a  high  tribute  to  the  ability  and  integrity 
of  the  dead  employe,  he  added : 


254  LONG  SWEETENING 

"The  mere  fact  that  he  had  withdrawn  a  trifling 
sum  from  the  bank  upon  his  I.  O.  U.,  which  has  always 
been  quite  customary  among  our  trusted  employes, 
cannot  possibly  account  for  his  rash  act.  That  is  all 
I  can  say  for  the  present." 

A  little  later  in  the  day  Mrs.  Coleman  called  and 
asked  for  information  concerning  the  demand  upon 
Arnold. 

"Who  told  you  about  it?"  asked  Carson. 

"Mr.  Arnold  asked  me  to  withdraw  it.  I  told  him 
the  matter  was  in  your  hands." 

"That  was  quite  right,  Mrs.  Coleman." 

"Now  he  wants  to  buy  the  bonds." 

"Yes?    What  does  he  offer?" 

"Their  market  value." 

"In  cash?" 

"No;  he  offers  his  promissory  note  at  six  per  cent, 
secured  by  a  first  mortgage  on  real  estate.  The  bonds 
yield  only  five  per  cent." 

"What  real  estate?" 

"His  country  home  in  Mendocino." 

"That  property  with  improvements  has  cost  him 
less  than  ten  thousand  dollars,  its  value  is  uncertain 
and  the  title  is — doubtful." 

"Mr.  Arnold  was  so  eager  and  insistent  that  I 
thought  I  would  speak  to  you  about  it." 

"He  didn't  suggest  that  you  discuss  it  with  me,  did 
he?" 

"No." 


LONG  SWEETENING  255 

"I  thought  not.  You  had  better  leave  this  matter 
entirely  in  our  hands,  Mrs.  Coleman." 

"Certainly.    I  don't  understand  it  at  all." 

"You  will— later  on." 

It  was  evident  that  Arnold  could  not  deliver  the 
bonds  and  had  little  hope  of  raising  the  money.  That 
he  was  really  in  desperate  straits  and  would  resort 
to  any  expedient  or  subterfuge  became  more  apparent 
a  couple  of  days  later,  when  Pierce  called  at  the  office 
for  the  first  time  in  three  months. 

"I  am  told,  in  strictest  confidence,"  he  said  to  Car- 
son, "that  the  San  Francisco  Banking  &  Trust  Com- 
pany is  dissatisfied  with  its  counsel  and  desires  to  re- 
tain us." 

"It  hasn't  money  enough,"  declared  Carson  emphat- 
ically. 

"It  would  bring  with  it  the  legal  work  of  several 
other  corporations,  including  that  of  the  C.  N.  &  E, 
Railroad,  worth  to  us  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars  a  year." 

"Nothing  doing!" 

"Why  not,  Carson?" 

"Wait  a  week,  and  you  will  know  all  about  it." 

"But  they  want  an  answer  at  once." 

"Well,  you  have  it." 

"You're  the  boss,  Carson,"  Pierce  admitted  with 
evident  disappointment. 

At  the  expiration  of  the  week's  grace  Carson  was 
shown  into  Arnold's  office. 


256  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  have  called  for  the  Coleman  bonds,"  he  said  crisp- 
ly, disregarding  the  flabby  hand  extended  with  simu- 
lated cordiality. 

"Why,  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  disappoint  you,  Mr. 
Carson.     The  truth  is — " 

"No  disappointment  whatever.  I  didn't  expect 
them.  Of  course  you  are  ready  to  pay  their  market 
value  then." 

"Well,  frankly,  Mr.  Carson,  there  has  been  a  mis- 
appropriation of  those  bonds,  and — " 

"Yes;  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"And  I  want  to  investigate  the  matter  a  little  fur- 
ther. A  few  days  ago  one  of  our  employes,  caught  in 
a  small  defalcation,  committed  suicide,  and  I  have  rea- 
son to  believe  that  he  had  something  to  do  with  the 
disappearance  of  Mrs.  Coleman's  bonds." 

"Arnold,  you  are  lying." 

Arnold  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  great  show  of  in- 
dignation.   "Sir!    I  shall  not  listen  to  such  language!" 

"You  will  listen  to  all  I  have  to  say,"  replied  Car- 
son, "and  be  thankful  that  it  is  so  little.  You  know, 
and  I  know,  that  you,  personally — I  have  your  state- 
ment made  in  the  hearing  of  my  stenographer — sent 
those  bonds  to  New  York  and  disposed  of  them  to  bol- 
ster your  rotten  institution." 

"Look  here,  Carson!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I 
am  a  thief !    That  I  am  robbing  widows  and  orphans !" 

"Yes!"  snapped  Carson.  "And  the  dead  I  That  is 
exactly  what  I  mean  to  say." 


LONG  SWEETENING  257 

"You  are  greatly  mistaken — really  you  are,"  pleaded 
Arnold  as  he  sank  back  into  his  chair  and  mopped 
his  face  with  his  handkerchief. 

"There  is  no  mistake  about  it,  Arnold.  Deliver  those 
bonds,  pay  the  market  value,  or — go  to  the  peniten- 
tiary." 

"Why,  of  course  we  will  pay  for  them." 

"Then  do  it !"  Carson  rapped  on  the  desk  with  his 
knuckles. 

"How  will  you  have  it?" 

"In  gold  or  currency." 

"Til  send  it  to  your  office  by  messenger." 

"If  it  isn't  there  in  half  an  hour  I  will  return — with 
an  officer  and  a  warrant — for  your  arrest  on  a  charge 
of  embezzlement." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Arnold  was  actually 
frightened.  He  had  always  known  that  the  tempo- 
rary use  of  trust  funds  or  securities  was  irregular  and 
not  consistent  with  sound  banking  methods,  but  still 
regarded  it  merely  as  a  financial  expedient  to  be  em- 
ployed in  an  emergency — a  technical  violation  of  busi- 
ness ethics  rather  than  of  statute  law.  That  it  could 
ever  render  him  liable  to  criminal  prosecution  had 
scarcely  occurred  to  him,  and  he  had  been  putting  the 
thought  from  him.  Now  he  faced  it — with  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  to  be  paid  in  half  an  hour  and  the  cashier's 
report  on  his  desk  showing  less  than  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars on  hand  with  which  to  transact  the  day's  business. 
He  seized  the  telephone,  called  the  managers  of  his 
branch  banks  and  learned  that  the  day's  withdrawals 


258  LONG  SWEETENING 

had  exceeded  the  day's  deposits,  and  not  a  cent  could 
be  spared.  Arnold  knew  that  any  extraordinary  ef- 
fort to  raise  so  small  a  sum  would  cause  surprise,  ex- 
cite suspicion  and  probably  start  a  run  that  would 
force  the  bank  to  close  its  doors.  That  must  be  avoid- 
ed if  possible.  Clerks  were  rushed  out  to  call  in 
small  loans  and  peddle  the  few  shares  of  stock  still 
available,  but  the  necessity  of  caution  rendered  the 
work  slow  and  the  results  insignificant. 

Arnold's  secretary  placed  a  letter  on  the  desk.  The 
banker  glanced  over  it  hurriedly  and  turned  pale.  His 
bank  was  not  a  member  of  the  San  Francisco  Clear- 
ing House,  but  cleared  through  another  institution, 
and  this  was  a  notification  from  that  bank  that  it  would 
be  unable  to  continue  the  arrangement,  unless  a  suffi- 
cient sum  to  cover  all  transactions  were  maintained 
on  deposit. 

The  San  Francisco  Banking  and  Trust  Company 
was  doomed,  and  now  Arnold  had  only  himself  to 
save — and  but  fifteen  minutes  in  which  to  do  it.  He 
began  calling  his  closest  friends  on  the  telephone  and, 
throwing  caution  to  the  winds,  begged  frantically,  al- 
most incoherently,  for  the  loan  of  ten  thousand  dollars, 
five  thousand  dollars,  one  thousand  dollars — anything. 
The  responses  were  all  long-winded  expressions  of  re- 
gret or  half  promises  dependent  upon  innumerable  con- 
tingencies. There  was  one  last  resort.  He  would  send 
Carson  a  certified  check.  Before  it  could  be  presented 
the  bank  would  close  for  the  day,  and  before  the  open- 
ing in  the  morning  he  could  deposit  the  cash  to  meet  it 


LONG  SWEETENING  259 

After  his  interview  with  Arnold,  Carson  had  re- 
turned to  his  office  to  wait  the  allotted  time.  He  picked 
up  the  letters  that  had  accumulated  on  his  desk,  but 
tossed  them  aside  unread.  He  lighted  a  cigar  and 
paced  restlessly  to  and  fro,  watching  first  the  door 
through  which  would  come  the  announcement  that  Ar- 
nold's messenger  had  arrived,  and  then  the  clock  that 
would  mark  the  minute  of  Arnold's  fall.  The  fear 
that  the  banker  would  manage  in  some  way  to  wriggle 
out  of  the  trap  into  which  he  had  walked  grew  with 
each  passing  moment.  Only  five  minutes  more!  The 
door  opened,  and  a  clerk  entered. 

"Who  is  it?  What  do  you  want?"  demanded  Car- 
son, so  savagely  that  the  clerk  shrank  back  dismayed. 

"Why — er — I  just  wanted  to  ask  you  about — " 

"Wait  till  tomorrow  morning !"  ordered  Carson, 
waving  him  out. 

Carson  threw  away  his  cigar,  mopped  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  forehead  and  dropped  into  the  chair  at 
his  desk.     Four  minutes  more ! 

Arnold  handed  his  personal  check  for  fifty  thousand 
dollars  to  the  bank's  certification  clerk. 

"Please  certify  this  at  once  and  send  it  to  me  with 
a  messenger,,,  he  ordered,  with  his  usual  confidence 
and  assurance.  The  clerk  looked  at  it  and  at  Arnold. 
"Well — what  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"I  don't  think  your  balance  is  sufficient  to  cover  it, 
Mr.  Arnold,"  he  said. 

"I  know  that,"  snapped  Arnold.  "It  will  be — to- 
morrow morning." 


260  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Arnold — without  security/' 

"Here  is  my  I.  O.  U.,  with  the  bank's  acceptance 
as  security  for  the  loan.     Hurry!" 

The  clerk  took  it  hesitatingly  and  started  out.  At 
the  door  he  stopped,  turned,  strode  back  to  Arnold 
and  threw  the  papers  on  the  desk. 

"I'm  damned  if  I  do!  If  any  more  brains  are  blown 
out  around  here,  they  will  be  yours — not  mine!" 

This,  then,  was  the  end!  Ruin — disgrace — impris- 
onment! But  one  thing  remained  to  be  done — to  an- 
nounce his  failure  to  the  world.  He  raised  a  trembling 
hand  to  summon  his  secretary,  let  it  fall  again  and 
slowly  shrank  and  shriveled  in  his  chair. 

Carson,  with  every  pulse  throbbing  and  every  nerve 
strained  sat  with  gleaming  eyes  fixed  on  the  clock, 
clenching  his  fists  and  setting  his  jaws  at  every  jump 
of  the  minute  hand.  In  one  more  minute  he  would  set 
in  motion  the  machinery  of  the  law  that  would  grind 
John  Arnold  to  a  pulp.  He  held  his  breath  to  the  last 
tick,  then  seized  his  hat  and  rushed  from  the  office. 

For  ten  minutes  Arnold  sat  half  paralyzed,  shaken 
with  the  chill  of  fear  and  staring  in  stupid  fascina- 
tion at  the  button  on  his  desk,  like  a  condemned  man 
in  the  electric  chair  under  orders  to  touch  the  key 
that  would  send  him  into  eternity.  Was  there  no  es- 
cape— no  hope  of  a  reprieve?  What  would  become  of 
his  wife  and  child?  They  would  not  be  left  penniless, 
for  they  had  their  jewels  and  the  country  home.  Why 
had  he  not  thought  of  that  before  ?  They  would  fetch 
enough,  even  at  a  forced  sale,  to  settle  with  Mrs. 


LONG  SWEETENING  261 

Coleman  and  save  him  from  the  penitentiary.  Perhaps 
it  was  not  yet  too  late.  Revived  and  animated  by  this 
last  faint  hope  Arnold  seized  the  telephone  and  called 
Carson's  office. 

"Mr.  Carson  is  out  and  he  left  no  word  as  to  when 
he  would  return,"  was  the  only  information  obtain- 
able. 

Arnold  summoned  his  secretary  and  gave  him  hur- 
ried instructions. 

"Telephone  Potterville,"  he  ordered,  "and  get  some 
one  to  fetch  Mrs.  and  Miss  Arnold  from  the  lake  in 
time  to  catch  the  early  morning  train.  Meet  them  at 
the  ferry  tomorrow  and  see  that  they  get  home.,, 

Half  an  hour  later  John  Arnold,  a  fugitive  from 
justice  hiding  under  an  alias  in  the  darkened  room  of 
a  third  class  hotel,  was  telephoning  his  cashier  to 
close  the  bank  and  post  a  notice  of  suspension,  and 
Carson  was  giving  instructions  to  his  private  detec- 
tive. 

"Pick  up  John  Arnold  and  keep  him  under  sur- 
veillance," he  ordered.  "Tomorrow  morning  I  will 
have  a  warrant  for  his  arrest." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

The  suspension  of  the  San  Francisco  Banking  and 
Trust  Company,  announced  in  flaming  headlines  by 
the  newspaper  extras,  was  almost  as  much  of  a  sur- 
prise to  Carson  as  to  the  public.  Though  he  had  be- 
lieved it  inevitable  he  had  not  expected  the  crash  to 
follow  his  first  blow.  It  was  as  though  a  slow-fuse 
bomb,  to  which  he  had  applied  a  match,  had  exploded 
in  his  hand,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  stunned.  After 
the  first  shock  came  the  glow  of  achievement,  of 
satisfaction,  of  elation,  and  with  it  the  impulse  to 
view  the  wreck  and  ruin  he  had  wrought.  As  he 
neared  the  bank  he  saw  a  squad  of  police  struggling 
with  a  hysterical  and  frenzied  mob  of  depositors — 
men  and  women — fighting  to  reach  the  doors  and  ob- 
tain some  scrap  of  information  that  might  allay  their 
fears  or  buoy  their  hopes.  Men  were  cursing  and 
shouting:  "Where's  Arnold !"  "Drag  him  out!" 
"Get  a  rope!"  "Lynch  the  thief!"  Carson  hoped 
that  Arnold  was  cowering  inside,  that  he  would  be 
dragged  out  to  face  the  victims  of  his  criminal  cu- 
pidity. 

Apart  from  the  mob  and  leaning  against  a  wall  for 
support,  Carson  saw  a  fragile,  middle-aged  woman 
in  black,   weeping  softly. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Madam?"  he  asked. 
She  merely  glanced  at  him  and  shook  her  head.  "It 
may  not  be  as  bad  as  you  fear,"  he  said  reassuringly. 

(262) 


LONG  SWEETENING  263 

"The  bank  may  be  able  to  pay  its  depositors  in  time." 

"If  it  does  it  will  be  months — and  how  can  I  wait?" 

"Is  everything  you  have  in  that  bank?" 

"Everything!      I   sold   my   home  today   for   eight 

thousand  dollars.    They  took  it,  and  as  I  came  out  they 

closed  the  doors  and  put  up  that  notice." 

"The  thief!"  exclaimed  Carson,  hot  with  indigna- 
tion. 

As  his  eyes  roved  over  the  growing  mob  he  noted 
the  preponderance  of  the  poorer  classes — thrifty 
housewives,  small  shopkeepers  and  laborers — who  had 
been  lured  by  the  promise  of  a  higher  rate  of  interest, 
only  to  have  the  savings  of  years  swallowed  up  by 
Arnold's  gambling  games.  He  turned  and  walked 
away  from  the  depressing  scene,  meditating  upon  the 
misfortune  and  misery  that  thousands  must  endure. 
So  must  the  innocent  always  suffer.  It  was  regret- 
table and  deplorable,  but  it  had  been  unavoidable  and 
inevitable.  In  precipitating  it  he  may  have  saved 
many  others  from  loss;  if  he  had  acted  a  few  hours 
earlier  at  least  one  poor  woman  would  have  been 
spared. 

The  morning  papers  contained  page  after  page  of 
the  sensational  failure,  giving  every  scrap  of  obtain- 
able information  concerning  John  Arnold,  his  family, 
his  associates  and  his  financial  activities,  followed  by 
the  individual  tales  of  depositors  and  creditors  who 
had  been  ruined.  The  absence  of  any  statement  or  ex- 
planation, the  refusal  of  any  one  connected  with  the 
bank  to  give  any  information  and  the  disappearance 


264  LONG  SWEETENING 

of  John  Arnold  were  emphasized  and  given  the  worst 
possible  construction.  All  was  carefully  worded  to 
avoid  the  possibility  of  libel  suits,  but,  nevertheless, 
was  pregnant  with  innuendo,  insinuation  and  suspicion 
of  fraud  and  criminality  that  might  be  uncovered 
when  the  bank's  books  and  vaults  should  be  opened 
and  inspected. 

Carson,  still  in  bed,  read  every  line  in  two  of  the 
papers,  even  to  the  subtitles  of  reproduced  photographs 
of  John  Arnold  at  his  desk,  the  Arnold  bank  sur- 
rounded by  a  murderous  mob,  the  Arnold  home  be- 
sieged by  angry  depositors,  the  Arnold  lumber  mills, 
the  Arnold  terminals  and  the  map  of  the  Arnold  rail- 
road. He  smiled  with  grim  satisfaction  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  been  able  with  a  touch  to  send  a  financial 
structure  of  such  magnitude  tumbling  upon  his  enemy, 
burying  him  and  everybody  and  everything  connected 
with  him  in  the  wreckage.  He  picked  up  the  last 
paper,  and  from  the  front  page  Betty  Arnold,  in  her 
coming-out  gown,  smiled  at  him  trustfully  over  a 
bouquet  of  lady-slippers  and  maiden-hair  fern.  He 
gazed  a  full  minute  before  he  laid  the  paper  aside, 
then,  with  hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  lay  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  lost  in  the  recollections  it  recalled. 

The  urgent  but  unexplained  summons  to  San  Fran- 
cisco terrified  Mrs.  Arnold,  and  though  Betty  made 
light  of  it  and  did  everything  possible  to  reassure  her 
mother,  she  herself  was  greatly  alarmed.  In  a  few 
minutes  they  were  ready  to  depart;  in  the  early  eve- 
ning they  were  in  Potterville,  and  Betty  was  calling 


LONG  SWEETENING  265 

her  San  Francisco  home  on  the  telephone.  It  seemed 
hours  before  she  could  get  a  free  line,  but  at  last 
she  was  told  to  "go  ahead"  and  heard  the  voice  of 
the  butler. 

"No,  Miss  Arnold;  Mr.  Arnold  is  not  at  home!" 
she  was  informed.  "He  hasn't  been  home  since  the 
morning !  No ;  nothing  has  happened,  except,  I  take  it, 
that  the  bank  has  failed!  Yes — failed!  And  the 
newspaper  reporters  are  most  annoying!" 

Her  father's  absence  from  his  home  was  even  more 
alarming  than  the  failure  of  the  bank,  but  she  tried  to 
reassure  herself  and  her  mother  with  the  belief  that 
the  bank's  affairs  were  occupying  his  time  and  atten- 
tion to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  Before  they 
reached  San  Francisco  the  next  morning  they  had 
the  newspapers  telling  all  that  was  known,  conjectured 
and  suspected  concerning  the  disaster  and  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  banker.  At  the  ferry  they  were  met  by 
Arnold's  secretary  and  personal  attorney. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Arnold?"  asked  Mrs.  Arnold  anx- 
iously. 

"Sh-h!"  warned  the  attorney.  "He's  all  right,  but 
very  busy.  Your  car  is  waiting  for  you.  I  will  tell 
you  all  about  it  later." 

The  mob  that  beset  the  Arnold  house,  overflowing 
from  the  lawn  to  the  street,  compelled  them  to  resort  to 
the  rear  entrance,  and  even  then  they  were  forced  to 
run  a  gauntlet  of  newspaper  reporters  and  photog- 
raphers. 


266  LONG  SWEETENING 

"It  is  impossible  to  say  at  the  present  time  just 
how  serious  the  failure  is,"  explained  the  attorney, 
closeted  with  Mrs.  Arnold,  "but  it  is  imperative  that 
fifty  thousand  dollars  in  cash  be  raised  immediately. 
That  is  the  reason  Mr.  Arnold  sent  for  you.  Much 
as  he  regrets  it,  he  is  compelled  to  have  recourse  to 
the  family  jewels  and  the  country  place  he  gave  Miss 
Arnold." 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Arnold.  "We  are  ready  to 
make  any  sacrifice  that  is  necessary.  Betty  will  sign 
over  the  property  at  once,  and  our  jewels  are  in  my 
safe  deposit  box  at  the  bank." 

"In  the  bank!"  gasped  the  attorney. 

"Yes;  I  left  them  there  when  we  went  to  the  coun- 
try." 

"Then  they  are  in  the  custody  of  the  Bank  Commis- 
sioners and  cannot  be  touched."  The  attorney  walked 
to  and  fro  pondering  the  unexpected  turn  of  events. 
"Can  you  be  ready  to  leave  the  city  with  Mr.  Arnold 
this  evening?" 

-Yes— but  why?" 

"Mr.  Arnold  is  in  a  highly  nervous  state,  and  it 
would  be  better  for  him  to  have  a  few  days'  rest  and 
quiet  before  he  takes  up  the  extraordinary  amount  of 
labor  that  the  settlement  of  the  bank's  affairs  will  en- 
tail. If  Miss  Arnold  will  remain  here,  I  will  attend 
to  the  disposition  of  the  country  property  in  accord- 
ance with  Mr.  Arnold's  instructions.  To  avoid  an- 
noyance I  would  suggest  that  you  go  out  the  back  way 
plainly  attired,   with  one  of  the  servants  at  exactly 


LONG  SWEETENING  267 

ten- forty-five.  You  will  find  your  car  awaiting  you 
down  the  street  a  block  or  two.  And  I  would  advise 
that  neither  you  nor  your  daughter  should  see  any  one 
or  give  any  information  whatever. " 

With  a  promise  to  do  his  best  to  abate  the  annoy- 
ance of  the  clamorous  mob  surrounding  the  house  he 
departed. 

Carson  was  just  leaving  for  the  District  Attorney's 
office  when  his  detective  reported  that  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Arnold  had  returned  from  the  country,  but  with  all  of 
his  force  he  had  been  unable  to  locate  Arnold. 

"If  he  has  not  already  left  the  city,  he  is  certainly 
keeping  close  under  cover,"  he  declared. 

Carson  was  on  friendly  terms  with  the  District  At- 
torney. He  had  not  neglected  anything  so  essential 
to  his  plans. 

"I  have  called  to  ask  for  a  warrant  for  the  arrest 
of  John  Arnold,"  he  said.  "I  am  ready  to  present 
evidence  of  the  embezzlement  of  trust  funds;  and  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  he  may  already  be  a  fugi- 
tive from  justice." 

"I  have  just  been  in  communication  with  Arnold's 
personal  attorney,"  replied  the  official,  "and  am  as- 
sured that  he  is  in  the  city  and  holding  himself  in 
readiness  to  meet  any  charges  that  may  be  made." 

"He  is  anticipating  such  a  possibility,"  said  Car- 
son. 

"Yes ;  I  was  told  that  you  were  threatening  a  prose- 
cution." 

"And  I  am  now  ready  to  make  the  threat  good." 


268  LONG  SWEETENING 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  Mr.  Carson,  but  I  do  not 
feel  disposed  to  take  any  such  action  just  at  this  time." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Carson,  with  a  sharp  glance 
of  suspicion. 

"From  all  I  can  gather  this  is  a  bad  smash,  and  a 
great  many  innocent  people  will  suffer.  I  feel  no  in- 
clination to  spare  Arnold,  but  I  do  want  to  save 
others." 

"Who,  for  instance?" 

"The  depositors  of  other  banks." 

"How  are  they  endangered?" 

"First,  the  money  market  is  none  too  strong;  sec- 
ondly, if  the  full  extent  of  this  failure  is  disclosed  at 
once  a  run  on  other  banks  will  be  precipitated ;  thirdly, 
an  over-zealous  chief  of  police  almost  started  what  he 
feared  by  posting  a  uniformed  policeman  at  the  door 
of  every  bank  in  the  city  this  morning.  Fortunately 
they  were  discovered  and  hustled  away  before  they  ex- 
cited general  alarm." 

"What  do  you  purpose  doing?" 

"I  have  already  asked  the  Presiding  Judge  to  im- 
panel a  new  grand  jury  for  the  purpose  of  investigat- 
ing Arnold's  affairs.  If  any  criminality  is  found,  I 
promise  you  I  will  prosecute  to  the  bitter  end.  He  is 
too  well  known  to  escape,  even  if  he  tried.  Informa- 
tion will  be  given  out  from  time  to  time  as  the  Bank 
Commissioners  and  the  receiver,  who  will  be  appointed 
today,  consider  advisable.  I  think,  on  reflection,  you 
will  agree  with  the  wisdom  of  my  course.  If,  however, 
you  present  evidence  of  criminality  and  demand  the  is- 


LONG  SWEETENING  269 

suance  of  a  warrant,  I  have  no  alternative.  But  I  hope 
you  will  not  insist,  Mr.  Carson." 

"When  will  you  be  ready  to  take  my  matter  before 
the  grand  jury?" 

"In  a  week — or  ten  days  at  the  most." 

"I  will  wait." 

On  his  return  to  his  office  Carson  found  Arnold's 
attorney  waiting  for  him  with  a  plea  to  relax  his  threat- 
ened prosecution  and  assurances  that  the  amount  due 
Mrs.  Coleman  would  be  paid. 

"What  security  can  you  give  my  client?"  asked 
Carson.  "No  matter  what  my  personal  inclinations 
may  be  in  the  matter  my  first  duty  is  to  her." 

"We  can  give  Mr.  Arnold's  country  home,  free  of 
encumbrance.  I  am  informed  that  it  is  highly  desirable, 
either  as  a  public  resort  or  for  the  water  and  power 
that  may  be  developed." 

Carson  smiled.  "You  may  assure  Mr.  Arnold  that 
if  he  can  convey  a  clear  title  to  that  property  it  will 
be  accepted  in  payment  for  the  misappropriated  bonds." 

"We  don't  admit  any  misappropriation — merely  in- 
ability to  meet  an  immediate  demand." 

"The  fact  remains,  no  matter  how  you  may  euphem- 
ize  it,"  retorted  Carson. 

"I  will  wire  at  once  for  the  abstract  of  title." 

"Do  so." 

"You  will  give  us  time  to  get  it  and  make  the  con- 
veyance?" 

"Yes,"  smiled  Carson  amiably. 


270  LONG  SWEETENING 

Early  the  next  morning  Carson  received  this  tele- 
gram: 

"Saw  A's  automobile  at  daylight  this  morning  head- 
ed for  the  lake.  Think  I  can  find  him  if  he  is  wanted. 
Burke/' 

So  Arnold  had  eluded  the  detectives  and  slipped  out 
of  the  city  to  find  at  least  a  temporary  refuge  at  the 
lake.  The  afternoon  train  carried  Carson  to  Potter- 
ville,  and  at  dawn  an  automobile  was  rushing  him  and 
a  grumbling  Sheriff  toward  the  lake. 

"I'm  skittish  of  these  gas-jammers,"  confessed  the 
Sheriff,  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  back  seat  watch- 
ing the  chauffeur  apprehensively.  "Give  me  a  good 
old  hay-burner  every  time.  No  machine  was  ever 
built  that  could  go  as  long  without  stopping  as  that 
old  mule  of  mine.  He's  a  first  cousin  of  perpetual 
motion.  I  suppose,  though,  it  is  all  in  getting  used 
to  it,  but  by  the  time  you  get  acquainted  with  a  car 
it  is  worn  out.  Then,  I  never  could  understand  any 
kind  of  machinery  more  complicated  than  a  monkey 
wrench,  and  a  coffee  mill  is  more  of  a  mystery  to  me 
than  a  mule's  mind.  The  only  kind  of  motive  power  I 
understand  is  a  pair  of  spurs.  I'm  like  the  blacksmith's 
boy,"  he  rambled  on,  "that  went  to  the  city  and  saw 
his  first  cable  car.  The  only  kind  of  power  that  he 
knew  anything  about  was  his  father's  bellows,  so  when 
he  came  back  he  described  the  operation  of  the  street 
car  this  way : 

"  'They's  a  feller  out  in  front,  an*  when  he  wants 
her  to  go,  he  jes  grabs  a  handle  an'  pumps  her  full 


LONG  SWEETENING  271 

of  wind,  an'  away  she  goes!  An'  when  he  wants  her 
to  stop,  he  jes  shoves  the  handle  back,  an*  let's  the 
wind  outen  her,  an'  she  stops !' 

"They  say  a  mule  is  harder  to  understand  than  a  ma- 
chine, but  if  you  ever  get  to  know  one,  you  know 
all  about  it.  You  can  always  bet  it's  going  to  do 
exactly  what  you  least  expect  most,  so  you're  never 
surprised;  and  you  can  be  sure  it's  going  to  last  as  long 
as  you  do — and  a  whole  lot  longer,  if  you  fool  around 
its  heels.  But  when  it  comes  to  being  killed,  I'd 
rather  be  kicked  to  death  by  a  mule  than  be  smeared 
all  over  the  side  of  a  gulch  by  one  of  these  things. 

"And  when  a  mule  gets  a  grievance  on  his  mind," 
continued  the  Sheriff  with  a  sly  glance  at  Carson,  "he 
uses  it  merely  as  a  mental  stimulant  until  he  gets  to 
the  oats;  and  then  he  forgets  it.  That's  where  a 
mule,  or  even  his  despised  progenitor,  the  jackass, 
shows  more  intelligence  than  you.    Isn't  it  so?" 

"Huh?  Qh — yes — certainly — there's  no  question 
about  it,"  agreed  Carson,  who  hadn't  heard  a  word. 

Carson  and  the  Sheriff  left  the  machine  in  the  red- 
woods near  the  Arnold  garage  and  walked  up  the  path 
toward  the  lake.  At  the  edge  of  the  forest  Carson 
stopped  his  companion  with  a  gesture,  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment and  held  his  breath  while  his  eyes  wandered  over 
the  placid  beauty  of  the  scene. 

"Isn't  it  marvelous!  he  exclaimed  ecstatically. 

"Just  like  the  pie  mother  used  to  make,"  replied 
the  Sheriff.    "I  hope  you  don't  find  a  fly  in  it." 


2J2  LONG  SWEETENING 

Carson  threw  him  a  glance  full  of  unutterable  dis- 
gust and  walked  on  towards  the  bungalow.  All  was 
still,  and  they  saw  no  one  till  they  had  almost  reached 
the  side  entrance.  Through  the  open  doorway  they 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  servant  moving  in  the  back  part 
of  the  house;  and  then  they  saw  John  Arnold  half 
dozing  among  the  cushions  of  a  big  chair  on  the  front 
veranda.  As  they  walked  around  to  him  he  opened 
his  eyes  slowly  and  turned  his  face  toward  them.  He 
started  up,  staring  first  at  one  and  then  the  other,  half 
stupidly,  then  collapsed. 

"My  God!"  he  gasped.     "You  have  come  for  me!" 

Sheriff  Burke  glanced  at  Carson,  who  stood  star- 
ing down  at  the  helpless  old  hulk  of  a  man  cowering 
among  the  cushions. 

"How  soon  can  you  be  ready  to  leave  here?"  he 
asked. 

"Is  there — no  alternative?"  He  searched  Carson's 
face  for  some  sign  of  softening,  but  saw  only  grim 
relentlessness. 

"No!    You  must  go!" 

"I  am  ready."  Arnold  turned  pleadingly  to  the 
Sheriff.  "You  will  not — put  handcuffs  on  me — will 
you?" 

"We  didn't  come  here  to  arrest  you,"  Burke  hast- 
ened to  explain. 

"Not — not  to  arrest  me!  He  raised  himself  and 
gripped  the  arm  of  his  chair.     "What  is  it  then?" 

"I  have  come  to  take  possession  of  my  property," 
said  Carson. 


LONG  SWEETENING  273 

"Your  property?  You  have  accepted — have 
bought  it?" 

"No;  you  never  owned  it.  Your  title  was  always 
worthless,  mine  is  perfect,  and  I  am  taking  immediate 
possession.    The  question  of  arrest  will  come  later." 

"I — I  don't  understand."  Arnold  lay  back  and 
stared  at  Carson,  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  to 
question  his  statement. 

"I  want  you  to  leave  here  at  once.  This  place 
shall  not  shelter  a  criminal  another  day." 

"Tell  me,  Carson — why  are  you  persecuting  me? 
What  have  I  ever  done  to  you?" 

"Persecuting  you!  You  don't  remember  our  meet- 
ing years  ago,  do  you?" 

"Remember  you!"  Arnold  scrutinized  Carson's 
face  in  a  baffled  effort  to  connect  him  with  the  past. 

"No;  you  have  forgotten  the  ragged,  uncouth  boy, 
who  found  you  hopelessly  lost,  took  you  in  and  fed 
you.  Within  twenty-four  hours  you  forgot  your  pro- 
fuse expressions  of  gratitude  and  began  scheming  to 
despoil  him.  You  came  back  here  and  drove  him  from 
his  home — as  I  am  driving  you  from  your  last  refuge. 
You  forgot  all  that  for  years,  but  I  have  never  for- 
gotten it  for  an  instant !" 

Arnold  stared  at  him  fascinated,  bewildered.  "I — 
I  merely  followed  the  usual  legal  procedure,"  he 
pleaded. 

"And  now  it  is  my  turn  to  invoke  the  law.    This  is 
Go!" 
the  moment  for  which  I  have  worked  and  waited. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Williams  waked  from  his  afternoon  doze  with  a 
guilty  start.  He  had  been  "a-sleepin'  when  he'd  ought- 
er  of  been  a-thinkin'."  The  sudden  departure  of  Mrs. 
Arnold  and  Betty  had  raised  high  hopes;  the  return 
of  Arnold  and  his  wife  had  shattered  them.  After 
hours  devoted  to  the  problem  confronting  him  he  was 
still  undecided  between  two  possible  solutions.  Should 
he  say:  "Mr.  Arnold,  this  ain't  no  place  for  a  sick 
man — no,  siree,"  or  should  he  urge:  "Mr.  Arnold, 
Warm  Springs  is  just  the  place  for  a  sick  man — yes, 
siree!"  He  felt  that  he  would  be  able  to  present  ample 
testimony  and  offer  convincing  arguments  in  support 
of  either  contention — but  which?  As  he  shuffled  along 
the  trail  leading  to  the  bungalow,  he  suddenly  stopped 
and  slapped  his  thigh. 

"By  ginger!  I  got  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'll  tell  'im 
both!" 

Under  the  impulse  of  his  inspiration  he  ambled  on, 
quickening  his  pace  at  every  stride,  like  a  man  carry- 
ing water  in  a  leaky  vessel.  At  the  sight  of  Sheriff 
Burke  and  a  stranger  sitting  on  the  bench  in  front  of 
his  cabin  his  mental  carburetor  flooded  itself,  and  his 
legs  stopped  working  till  he  could  shift  his  gears  and 
pick  up  again  on  low.  Following  the  direction  of  the 
visitors'  gaze  he  saw  John  Arnold,  supported  on  one 
side  by  his  wife  and  on  the  other  by  his  chauffeur, 
tottering  toward  the  waiting    automobile.    Servants 

(274) 


LONG  SWEETENING  27$ 

carrying  suitcases  followed  them.  Williams's  jaw  drop- 
ped, and  his  motor  died.  Even  when  Arnold  stopped, 
turned  and  let  his  eyes  wander  over  the  place,  Wil- 
liams remained  hopelessly  stalled.  It  didn't  even  occur 
to  him  to  crank  up  and  go  into  reverse  in  order  to 
avoid  the  imminent  danger  of  parting  instructions.  Not 
until  Arnold  had  been  lifted  into  the  car  and  it  had 
disappeared  in  the  forest  could  Williams  get  under 
headway  again. 

"Howdy,  Sheriff !"  he  greeted  Burke.  "Fine  day!'r 
To  Williams  the  weather  was  the  ignition  system  of 
starting  conversation. 

"Hello,  Williams !  This  is  Mr.  Carson,  the  new  own- 
er of  this  place,"  Burke  informed  him. 

"The— the  which?" 

"The  new  owner  here." 

Unconsciously  and  instinctively,  as  a  mother  in  a 
moment  of  peril  seizes  her  child,  Williams's  mind 
clutched  his  sinecure.  "How  about  my  job?"  he  heard 
a  voice,  strangely  like  his  own,  asking  somewhere  in 
the  fog  that  surrounded  him. 

"You  haven't  any,"  observed  Carson. 

Hadn't  any  job!  He  had  had  one,  only  a  moment 
ago.  He  felt  the  pockets  of  his  overalls.  What  could 
he  have  done  with  it?  Could  he  have  mislaid  it — or 
lost  it  ?  Ah !  this  stranger  had  taken  it  when  he  wasn't 
looking,  but  "mebbe  he  was  only  funnin'."  His  eyes 
searched  Carson's  face  for  some  hope  of  its  restora- 
tion. This  fellow  couldn't  take  his  job  away  from  him 
without  a  struggle. 


276  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Don't  you  calcalate  you'll  kind  o'  need  somebody 
to  show  you  'round  when  yer  hyur,  an'  keep  outsiders 
off  when  you  ain't  ?"  Carson  shook  his  head  slowly  but 
emphatically.  "I've  been  hyur  fifteen  year,  an'  I  know 
ev'ry  woodtick  on  the  place  by  his  fust  name,  an'  I 
kin  show  you  where  to  git  deer  any  time  you  want 
one." 

"I  have  been  introduced  to  all  the  woodticks,"  said 
Carson,  "and  I  don't  need  any  guide  to  find  your 
sleeping-place  down  there  in  that  laurel  grove.  Be- 
sides, I  shoot  deer — I  don't  snare  them.  You  had  bet- 
ter pack  up  and  get  away  before  the  Sheriff  becomes  in- 
quisitive about  those  snares." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  a-movin',"  decided  Williams. 
"I  don't  know  as  I  set  too  much  store  by  this  hyur 
job  nohow.  You  know  too  durn  much." 

The  trucks  ordered  in  anticipation  of  the  Arnolds' 
eviction  arrived  and  were  soon  loaded  with  the  Arnold 
Dag&a&e>  furniture  and  servants — and  the  recently 
detached  Williams. 

"I  have  waited  a  long  time  for  this  day,"  said  Car- 
son, as  they  disappeared — "the  day  when  I  should  be 
restored  to  absolute  and  undisputed  possession  of  the 
old  place." 

"Yes;  you've  licked  him — good  and  plenty.  How 
long  you  going  to  stay  ?"  asked  the  Sheriff. 

"Only  a  few  days  this  time — possibly  a  week — just 
long  enough  to  realize  that  all  my  dreams  have  come 


LONG  SWEETENING  277 

"They  never  do,  son,"  declared  the  Sheriff  gravely. 
"I  had  one  that  lasted  nearly  forty  years,  and  then 
turned  out  to  be  a  nightmare.  Two  years  ago  I  heard 
that  the  little,  blue-eyed,  red-headed  girl  that  made  a 
bachelor  out  of  me  was  a  widow,  and  I  went  all  the 
way  back  to  Missouri  to  get  her.  I  found  her  old 
enough  to  be  my  mother  and  teaching  one  of  her 
grandsons  to  smoke  a  corncob  pipe.  When  she  said: 
'Torn,  hit  seems  like  I  ain't  the  girl  I  used  ter  be/ 
I  thought :    'No,  and  you  never  was,  either/  " 

"So  you  didn't  get  her." 

"I  took  one  draw  at  her  pipe  for  old  time's  sake, 
and  that  was  plenty." 

"But  nature  is  always  young  and  beautiful — only 
people  change." 

"That's  true,  son.  Well,  I  guess  I'll  get  that  fellow 
to  turn  on  the  gas  and  blow  me  into  town,  while  you 
sit  here,  by  your  happy  fireside  humming  the  old  song 
Bill  Parton  always  sings  when  he  gets  a  full  hand: 

"  'Backwards!  Turn  back'ards,  oh,  Time  in  thy  flight, 
An'  make  me  a  boy  ag'in,  jist  fur  ter- night/  " 
"So  long!" 

After  the  Sheriff's  departure  Carson  stood  frowning 
at  the  empty  bungalow,  the  only  thing  that  remained 
to  remind  him  of  John  Arnold.  He  knew  he  could 
never  occupy  it  and  was  seized  with  the  impulse  10 
burn  it.  But  that  could  not  be  done  without  destroy- 
ing the  trees  around  it,  and  he  recalled  that  he  had 
once  said  he  would  feel  like  a  vandal  if  he  burned  a 
single  shrub.     He  would  wait,  have  it  torn  down  at 


278  LONG  SWEETENING 

his  leisure  and  have  every  trace  of  it  removed.  He 
turned  and  entered  the  cabin.  For  a  full  minute  he 
stood  gazing  around  at  the  old  familiar  place.  Ap- 
parently not  a  single  piece  of  the  rude  furniture  fash- 
ioned by  his  father  had  been  moved  an  inch.  Even  the 
old  buffalo  robe  and  bear  skins,  now  almost  denuded 
of  hair,  lay  in  a  heap  on  one  of  the  bunks.  The  smok- 
ed rafters  were  festooned  with  sooty  cobwebs,  the 
floor  black  and  grimy  and  the  whole  place  inexpres- 
sibly squalid;  but  it  was  home — his  home — the  only 
home  he  had  ever  acknowledged — the  home  to  which 
nostalgic  memory  had  clung  tenaciously  through  all 
these  years.  But  something  was  missing — something 
that  should  have  warmed  and  welcomed  him.  His  eyes 
searched  the  place  again.  "Old  Tom"  and  "Betsy,"  the 
faithful  companions  of  his  boyhood,  were  missing  from 
the  antlered  rack  over  the  mantel ;  on  the  hearth,  where 
a  cheerful  fire  should  be  blazing  and  crackling,  only 
a  heap  of  ashes  smouldered. 

Carson  changed  to  khaki  and  moccasins,  rolled  in  a 
backlog  and  started  a  fire.  Then  he  picked  up  the 
light  rifle  he  had  brought  with  him  and  took  the  trail 
to  the  evening  feeding-grounds  of  the  deer.  Within 
half  a  mile  a  startled  buck  sprang  out  into  the  open 
eighty  yards  away  and  stood  broadside  gazing  at  him 
in  astonishment.  He  threw  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder, 
took  deliberate  aim,  pressed  the  trigger  and — missed! 
Four  more  ineffectual  shots  followed  the  deer  as  it 
went  bounding  away. 


LONG  SWEETENING  279 

"I'm  a  hell  of  a  hunter,"  Carson  muttered  in  dis- 
gust, as  he  turned  homeward. 

After  supper  of  canned  goods  instead  of  the  deer 
liver  and  bacon  he  had  counted  on,  Carson  threw  a 
fresh  log  on  the  fire,  filled  his  pipe,  drew  up  a  stool 
and  seated  himself  for  an  evening  of  tranquil  felicity. 
At  last  in  soothing  solitude  he  could  find  the  perfect 
rest  and  blissful  repose  that  had  so  long  been  denied 
him,  a  solitude  unbroken  by  strife,  contention!  and 
clamor.  Not  even  a  disturbing  thought  could  intrude 
itself  here.  For  nearly  seventeen  years  he  had  labored, 
not  in  patient  confidence  as  Jacob  had  toiled  for  Rachel, 
but  in  torment,  torture  and  hatred,  as  Samson  had 
slaved  for  the  Philistines.  But  he  had  pulled  the  temple 
down  upon  the  head  of  his  enemy  alone  and  had  es- 
caped triumphant.  No ;  others  had  been  hurt — but  that 
had  been  unavoidable. 

Confound  it !  The  fireplace  smoked.  Carson  recalled 
that  it  had  always  done  so,  that  he  and  his  father  be- 
fore him  had  often  threatened  to  fix  it,  but  had  never 
got  around  to  it.  And  that  lazy  Williams  had  endured 
it  for  fifteen  years !  He  shifted  his  stool,  which  creaked 
dismally  with  the  slightest  movement,  and  folded  a 
blanket  for  a  cushion. 

Now,  the  indeterminate  sentence  of  seventeen  years 
had  expired,  and  he  was  free  to  begin  life  again  where 
John  Arnold  had  interrupted  it — not  the  life  of  the 
uncouth,  shiftless  and  illiterate  mountaineer,  but  the 
idyllic  life  of  the  successful  man  of  affairs,  whose  sense 
of  appreciation  has  been  perfectly  developed  by  con- 


280  LONG  SWEETENING 

tact  with  the  world,  whose  capacity  for  enjoyment  has 
been  enlarged  to  the  limit  by  long  deprivation  and  keen 
anticipation — forty  years  of  it  stretching  before  him, 
with  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  restrict  his  en- 
joyment of  it  to  the  utmost.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  had 
been  for  the  best. 

Carson's  thoughts  turned  to  his  old  enemy,  John 
Arnold,  crushed,  impoverished,  despised,  hiding  up 
there  in  the  wilderness,  too  cowardly  to  face  the  in- 
evitable, too  decrepit  to  flee  from  it.  Prosecution — 
conviction — imprisonment — death !  Each  following  the 
other  swiftly,  for  it  was  certain  that  he  could  not  long 
survive  the  disgrace  and  torture  of  the  jute  mill.  Car- 
son pictured  him  pausing  at  the  threshold  of  the  peni- 
tentiary, a  broken,  hopeless  old  man,  looking  for  the 
last  time  upon  the  blue  sea,  inhaling  for  the  last  time 
the  perfume  of  flowers,  hearing  for  the  last  time  the 
song  of  wild  birds — looking  as  he  had  that  day  when 
he  turned  his  gaze  for  the  last  time  upon  the  peaceful 
refuge  from  which  he  had  been  driven.  How  could 
he  have  the  courage  to  wait?  Why  didn't  he  end  it  at 
once  with  a  shot  ? 

Carson  sprang  from  his  stool  and  walked  twice 
the  length  of  the  cabin  before  he  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  out  into  the  moonlight.  How  beautiful  it  was — 
but  how  still!  He  stood  for  a  moment  straining  his 
ears  for  some  companionable  sound,  and  was  grateful 
when  a  cicada  resumed  its  interrupted  chirping,  when 
disturbed  nestlings  in  the  honeysuckle  twittered  sleep- 
ily, when  a  frog  in  the  distance  began  croaking  lustily. 


LONG  SWEETENING  281 

He  strolled  slowly  to  the  lakeside  and  watched  the 
gleam  of  the  moonlight  upon  its  rippling  surface.  The 
gentle  lapping  of  the  water  on  the  pebbled  beach,  the 
soft  purling  and  plashing  of  the  little  cascade,  the 
faint  rustle  of  leaves  stirred  by  pine-scented  zephyrs 
were  ineffably  sweet  and  soothing.  Under  the  spell  of 
Nature's  lullaby,  luring  him  into  forgetfulness  of  every 
depressing  thought  and  care,  Carson  stood  motionless, 
enthralled.  The  sense  of  discomfort  and  oppression  im- 
posed upon  him  by  the  four  walls  of  the  gloomy  old 
cabin  fell  away,  and  he  felt  himself  stirred,  thrilled, 
lifted  into  a  state  of  ecstatic  exaltation.  He  turned  his 
face  to  the  stars;  the  frown  that  had  become  almost 
habitual  disappeared;  his  lips  parted  in  a  smile  that 
they  had  never  known;  his  fingers  clutched  his  throat 
that  was  swelling  with  emotions  he  had  never  felt.  Ah ! 
This  was  his  Long  Sweetening — all  his — his  alone — 
his  paradise  restored!  This  was  his  hour  of  triumph! 

The  melancholy  hoot  of  a  great  horned  owl  recalled 
him.  He  turned  slowly  toward  the  forest  whence  it 
came,  letting  his  gaze  linger  for  an  instant  upon  the 
lonely  and  deserted  bungalow  standing  like  a  mauso- 
leum under  the  brooding  trees.  Then,  limned  in  moon- 
light upon  the  dark  curtain  of  the  forest,  he  seemed  to 
see  the  figure  of  an  old  man,  faltering,  sinking  and 
swaying ! 

A  convulsive  tremor  reminded  Carson  of  the  chill 
in  the  night  air,  and  as  he  turned  toward  his  cabin 
the  night  seemed  to  darken,  descend  and  envelop  him 
in  a  sense  of  unutterable  weariness.    He  stumbled  to 


282  LONG  SWEETENING 

the  door,  groped  his  way  to  a  bunk  and  flung  himself 
upon  it.  He  slept,  not  long  and  dreamlessly,  but  in- 
termittently and  restlessly,  waking  often  with  a  start 
and  sleeping  again  only  after  long  intervals  in  which 
reflections  and  dreams  mingled  in  fantastic  confusion. 
At  daybreak  he  packed  up  his  outfit  and  carried  it  to 
the  cave.  Everything  there  remained  untouched  ex- 
cept by  Time.  The  blankets  and  clothing  he  had  left 
a  year  before  were  mildewed  and  rotten;  the  old 
traps  hidden  the  day  he  was  driven  from  the  lake  were 
a  heap  of  rust;  only  the  fishing  rod,  protected  by  its 
canvas  covering,  retained  its  usefulness. 

For  two  days  he  wandered  aimlessly  about  the  lake, 
avoiding  even  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  bungalow 
after  the  silent  reproach  it  seemed  to  harbor  had  driv- 
en him  from  Cathedral  Rock.  Though  he  followed  the 
familiar  trails  he  found  himself  stopping  often  to  ques- 
tion the  old  landmarks,  and  even  they  seemed  strangely 
altered  in  some  indefinable  way.  At  intervals  he  found 
himself  in  one  of  his  favorite  haunts,  high  on  a  sun- 
lit mountain  or  deep  in  some  sheltered  glen,  but  felt 
neither  satisfaction  nor  a  desire  to  linger.  The  thoughts 
of  Betty  Arnold  that  they  prompted  he  impatiently  put 
behind  him  as  he  hurried  on. 

After  his  first  disgusting  attempt  he  tried  no  more 
hunting.  Neither  did  he  set  any  snares.  Only  trout 
from  the  lake  and  the  few  handfuls  of  berries  he  gath- 
ered from  time  to  time  varied  the  monotony  of  bacon 
and  canned  goods.  When  the  third  night  came,  and 
with  it  a  nerve-racking  insomnia,  he  was  ready  to  sur- 


LONG  SWEETENING  283 

render  to  the  depression  with  which  he  had  been  bat- 
tling. 

"The  trouble  is  that  I  am  too  tired  to  play,  too  weary 
to  enjoy  anything,"  he  told  himself. 

At  midnight  he  kicked  himself  free  of  his  blankets, 
pulled  on  his  moccasins  and  climbed  to  the  Hog's 
Back.  For  an  hour,  clad  only  in  light  pajamas,  he 
walked  to  and  fro  on  the  moonlit  path  at  the  summit. 

"No  use  talking — this  damned  place  is  getting  on  my 
nerves,"  he  confessed.  "Fll  have  to  get  away  from  it." 

He  clambered  back  to  the  cave,  dressed  with  feverish 
haste,  seized  his  rifle  and  fled  up  the  trail  that  lay  like 
a  silver  thread  twisting  away  to  to  the  top  of  the 
chemissal-covered  mountain.  A  covey  of  quail,  sud- 
denly starting  from  his  path  with  a  startling  rustle 
and  whir,  set  him  tingling  with  the  chill  of  involuntary 
fear;  from  time  to  time  deer,  browsing  high  in  the 
light  of  the  full  moon,  went  bounding  away  into  the 
dark  depths  of  the  canyons  below.  No  other  sounds 
broke  the  perfect  stillness  of  the  night. 

Carson  had  passed  the  fork  of  the  trail  and  had 
reached  the  summit  of  the  main  ridge  before  he  paused 
to  rest  his  labored  breathing.  The  spot  was  familiar. 
He  had  rested  on  that  rock  before.  Only  then  did  he 
realize  that  he  was  traveling  the  same  trail  he  had 
taken  seventeen  years  before,  then  burning  with  the 
thirst  of  vengeance,  now — .  His  thoughts  flew  back 
over  the  long  hard  road  he  had  traversed,  and  he  smiled 
with  grim  satisfaction  as  he  reflected  that  no  obstacle 
had  swerved  him,  no  phantasy  had  beguiled  him,  no 


284  LONG  SWEETENING 

mirage  had  lured  him  from  the  path  that  stretched 
across  that  blazing  desert  of  hatred ;  but,  with  eyes  ever 
fixed  on  the  limpid  pool  in  the  distance,  he  had  gone 
straight  to  his  goal — and  had  drunk  his  fill.  And  now, 
like  the  traveler  refreshed — was  it  McTeague  who  sud- 
denly discovered — 

Carson  felt  himself  slowly  enveloped  by  a  chill  of 
nausea.  The  cool  water  with  which  he  had  gorged  him- 
selt  was  bitter — foul — horrible !  At  the  bottom  of  that 
placid  pool  lay  carrion — the  bloated  corpse  of  the  man 
he  had  hunted  down — and  had  driven  to  his  death ! 
CHAPTER  XXX. 

"Miss  Arnold,  I'm  afraid  nothing  can  be  done  with 
the  lake  property,"  her  father's  attorney  informed  her, 
"so  you  may  as  well  join  your  parents  in  the  country." 

"Is  it  so — very  important?"  asked  Betty. 

"Yes;  I'm  afraid  it  was — vitally  important." 

"Is  it — does  it  involve  anything  that  is  unlawful?" 
She  could  not  employ  the  word  "criminal,"  used  so 
lavishly  by  the  newspapers. 

"I'm  very  much  afraid  it  does — nothing  exactly 
criminal,"  he  hastened  to  explain,  "but  a  technical  vio- 
lation of  the  law." 

"Why  can  nothing  be  done?" 

"The  abstract  shows  that  your  father  never  had  a 
clear  title.  The  property  belongs  to  Wade  Carson,  of 
Pierce,  Barton  &  Carson." 

"But  you  told  me  he  had  promised  that  everything 
would  be  all  right," 


LONG  SWEETENING  285 

"Yes;  he  misled  me — deliberately  and  maliciously. 
For  some  reason  he  has  no  friendly  feeling  toward  your 
father." 

"What  explanation  does  he  give?" 

"I  have  not  been  able  to  see  him.  He  is  out  of  town. 
Please  tell  your  father  that  I  have  done,  and  am  still 
doing,  everything  in  my  power." 

At  Potterville,  Sheriff  Burke,  watching  as  usual  the 
arrival  and  departure  of  all  strangers,  recognized  Bet- 
ty under  her  heavy  veil  as  she  stepped  from  the  morn- 
ing train.  She  would  have  avoided  him,  but  he  inter- 
cepted her. 

"Your  father  and  mother  are  not  at  the  lake,"  he 
informed  her. 

"Where  are  they  ?"  She  made  no  attempt  to  conceal 
her  anxiety. 

"At  Warm  Springs." 

"Why  have  they  gone  there?  Is  my  father  ill?" 

"No — no  worse  than  he  was.  They'll  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

"But  why  didn't  they  write  me — or  wire  me  ?" 

The  Sheriff  began  to  shrink  and  shrivel.  He  shifted 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  fumbling  in  his  coat  pockets 
and  finally  rescuing  from  a  bundle  of  old  subpoenas  and 
receipts  a  soiled  and  crumpled  envelope. 

"I — I'm  very  sorry,"  he  stammered,  "but,  do  you 
know,  I  plumb  forgot  all  about  this  letter  your  ma 
gave  me  to  mail.  I  can't  remember  when  I  ever  forgot 
anything — " 


286  LONG  SWEETENING 

Betty  snatched  it  from  his  hand  and  read  a  hurried 
note  telling  her  of  her  parents'  destination.  "It's  all 
right,"  she  broke  in  on  the  Sheriff's  excuses  and  apolo- 
gies, "But  it's  fortunate  I  saw  you,  or  I  would  have 
been  on  my  way  to  the  lake." 

"You'd  surely  had  some  surprise  when  you  got 
there,"  he  observed,  as  he  helped  her  to  the  stage  ready 
to  depart  for  the  resort. 

The  Sheriff  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  speculating  on 
the  possibilities  of  Betty's  situation  if  he  had  chanced 
to  let  her  pass  unrecognized,  now  chuckling,  now 
frowning,  as  his  imagination  evolved  different  solu- 
tions of  the  problem.  He  was  still  pondering  it  when 
he  fell  asleep  that  night,  and  it  recurred  to  him  when 
he  woke  at  daybreak.  His  cogitations,  however,  were 
disturbed  by  a  peremptory  knocking  at  his  door.  He 
hastened  to  open  it  and  found  Wade  Carson  leaning 
on  his  rifle,  as  he  had 'seventeen  years  before. 

"Hello!  Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"From  the  lake." 

"Come  in."  The  Sheriff  noted  the  drawn  and  hag- 
gard face.  "Anything  gone  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"Everything,"  replied  Carson — as  he  had  seventeen 
years  before. 

A  frown  of  perplexity  gathered  on  the  old  man's 
face,  but  the  quick  scrutinizing  glances  he  threw  Carson 
as  he  drew  on  his  clothing  soon  dispelled  it.  With  a 
cunning  twinkle  in  his  shrewd  eyes  he  started  the  in- 


LONG  SWEETENING  287 

consequential  gabble  that  invariably  heralded  his  ar- 
rival at  a  solution  of  some  knotty  problem. 

"Guess  I  overslept  a  little  this  morning.  I  was  just 
in  the  middle  of  a  funny  dream,  when  you  woke  me 
up — dreaming  of  Bulger.  You  never  knew  Bulger, 
and  I  hadn't  thought  of  the  old  dog  for  years.  He  was 
just  a  conceited  pup  when  he  chased  a  neighbor's  chick- 
en scratching  in  my  garden,  and  killed  it.  Course  I 
tied  it  around  his  neck.  First  off  he  acted  as  though 
he  thought  I  had  pinned  a  medal  on  him,  but  later  on 
he  realized  that  he  was  in  what  you  might  call  bad 
odor.  He  would  try  to  run  away  from  it  till  he  drop- 
ped, and  as  soon  as  he  got  another  sniff  he'd  let  out  a 
howl  and  run  some  more.  Before  he  got  rid  of  it  he 
had  lost  all  his  self  respect,  and  always  afterwards  he 
just  hated  the  sight  of  a  chicken." 

"I'll  bet  you  sicked  him  on  it  in  the  beginning," 
growled  Carson. 

"Well,  come  to  think  of  it,  maybe  I  did — but  only 
to  encourage  the  pup.  I  never  thought  the  poor  mongrel 
had  it  in  him  to  ketch  it  or  kill  it."  After  a  pause.  "By 
the  way,  you  come  mighty  nigh  having  a  visitor  out  at 
the  lake  yesterday." 

"Who?"  inquired  Carson  listlessly. 

The  Sheriff  deliberately  turned  his  back  before  he 
answered :  "That  little  Arnold  girl." 

"Betty  Arnold!" 

"Yeah."  The  old  man  winked  at  himself  in  his  mir- 
ror. 

"Why— how  did  that  happen  ?" 


288  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Now,  ain't  it  peculiar?  I've  got  as  many  as  three 
handkerchiefs,  and  I  never  can  find  a  clean  one." 

It  required  ten  minutes  of  the  finest  cross-examina- 
tion of  his  life  for  Carson  to  drag  the  simple  facts  out 
of  the  garrulous  old  man — who  gathered  in  half  that 
time  more  than  Carson  himself  suspected. 

"When's  that  warrant  coming  for  Arnold's  arrest?" 
he  inquired  in  his  most  casual  tone.  As  expected  the 
inquiry  met  with  no  response.  "Well,  let's  go  up  town 
and  get  some  breakfast.  Then  you  can  tell  me  all 
about  it.-  And  I  suppose  you  have  some  business  to  at- 
tend to." 

"I  have— a  lot  of  it." 

It  was  mid-afternoon,  Carson's  business  had  been 
completed,  and  he,  in  a  machine,  was  on  his  way  back 
to  the  lake.  He  dismissed  it  at  the  pond  in  the  forest, 
having  already  decided  to  take  the  trail  over  the  moun- 
tain to  his  cave  and  avoid  the  bungalow.  He  paused 
and  turned  aside  at  his  conservatory.  The  lady-slip- 
pers were  in  full  bloom  among  the  maiden-hair  fern, 
and  though  he  had  never  before  touched  a  single  blos- 
som he  suddenly  found  his  hands  full  of  the  dainty 
orchids  he  had  plucked.  His  first  impulse  was  to  fling 
them  down  and  trample  them  into  the  mold.  Instead, 
he  spread  his  handkerchief,  laid  the  blossoms  on  a  bed 
of  wet  moss  and  fern,  gathered  up  the  corners,  carried 
it  to  the  cascade  by  the  lake  side  and  placed  them  on  a 
mossy  bank  where  the  spray  would  keep  them  fresh. 
Then  he  went  to  his  cave,  rolled  himself  in  his  blan- 
kets and  slept  for  eighteen  hours. 


LONG  SWEETENING  289 

That  Wade  Carson  had  taken  possession  of  his  prop- 
erty never  occurred  to  Betty  Arnold,  and  it  was  not 
until  she  reached  Warm  Springs  that  her  anxiety  con- 
cerning her  father's  condition  was  allayed. 

"Your  father  is  only  very  tired — and  despondent," 
Mrs.  Arnold  said,  in  response  to  eager  questioning. 

"Then  why  did  you  come  here?" 

"We  had  to  leave  the  lake,  and  we  had  no  other 
place  to  go." 

"Why  did  you  have  to  leave?" 

"Wade  Carson,  the  attorney,  owns  the  property  now, 
and  he  drove  us  off  at  a  moment's  notice!" 

"The  brute!  But  how  does  he  happen  to  own  it?" 

"It  belonged  to  his  father,  who  died,  and  your  father 
bought  it  when  the  estate  was  settled  up.  Through  some 
legal  blunder  the  title  was  defective,  and  Carson  has 
recovered  it." 

"Didn't  he  consent  to  the  sale  of  it?" 

"No;  he  threatened  to  shoot  your  father,  when  we 
took  possession,  though  we  offered  to  let  him  remain 
there  permanently  as  guide  and  keeper." 

"What  became  of  him  then?" 

"He  disappeared,  and  we  never  heard  of  him 
again — until  he  began  this  persecution.  He  is  behind 
it  all." 

"Was  that  the  boy  who  gave  father  'long  sweet'nLl, 
and  pulled  me  out  of  the  lake?" 

"Yes." 

"I  understand,  now." 

"What?" 


290  LONG  SWEETENING 

"His  enmity  toward  father." 

"Why  should  he  feel  such  hostility  ?" 

"To  be  driven  from  that  heavenly  spot,  with  no  hope 
of  ever  seeing  it  again?" 

Her  eyes,  rilled  with  tears,  were  fixed  yearningly 
and  hopelessly  on  the  North. 

Carson,  preparing  his  belated  breakfast  by  the  lake 
side,  found  himself  glancing  toward  the  point  of  rocks, 
half  expecting  to  see  a  canoe  glide  into  view.  As  he 
sipped  his  coffee  he  heard  distinctly  the  plash  of  a  pad- 
dle. Nonsense !  It  must  have  been  a  turtle  slipping  into 
the  water.  At  a  rustle  in  the  laurels  behind  him  he 
turned  his  head.  It  was  his  little  companion  of  the 
previous  year,  now  a  full  grown  squirrel,  timidly  offer- 
ing to  renew  their  old  acquaintance.  He  tossed  it  a  bit 
of  bread  and  watched  it  while  it  sat  flirting  its  tail 
gratefully  with  every  nibble. 

Then  Carson  heard  the  call  of  the  sickle-bill  thrush. 
As  he  started  to  his  feet  the  squirrel  scampered  away. 
Pshaw!  Nothing  but  a  confounded  bird!  Again  he 
heard  it — somewhere  in  the  tangled  undergrowth  of 
the  hillside  above  him.  To  assure  himself  that  it  was 
really  a  bird  and  not  merely  a  hallucination  he  stood 
up  and  peered  in  the  direction  whence  it  came.  He 
neither  saw  nor  heard  anything  flitting  among  the 
leaves,  though  he  knew  the  sickle-bill  thrush  was  never 
still  an  instant.  He  repeated  the  call,  hoping  to  lure  it 
closer,  and  then,  from  behind  a  rock  appeared  a  blonde 
head  and  a  smiling  face. 

"Summins!" 


'LONG  SWEETENING  291 

Carson,  dum founded,  stupefied,  remained  transfixed 
while  she  clambered  down  the  declivity. 

"I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  you,"  she  said  as  she 
went  toward  him  with  outstretched  hand,  "until  you 
looked  up.  Then  I  was  sure  it  wasn't — till  you  an- 
swered. You  know  I  have  never  before  seen  you  with- 
out a  beard,"  she  reminded  him. 

For  several  seconds  that  seemed  to  stretch  themselves 
into  minutes  they  stood  with  clasped  hands,  each  study- 
ing the  other's  face.  No;  she  was  not  the  same  little 
Summins  who  had  trotted  trustfully  at  his  heels  from 
morning  to  night;  neither  was  she  the  Betty  Arnold 
who  had  pleaded  for  his  reformation,  pledged  her 
friendship  and  redeemed  it  at  the  first  opportunity. 
She  was  neither — yet  both,  fused  into  one  by  the  al- 
chemy of  Time. 

As  the  familiar  frown  faded  from  Carson's  face 
Betty  shrank  from  him  with  the  embarrassment  one 
feels  on  discovering  that  one  has  grasped  the  hand  of 
a  stranger.  Surely  she  had  never  seen  that  smile, 
either  in  those  dark,  glowing  eyes  or  on  those  fine, 
sensitive  lips.  And  that  deep  dimple,  almost  a  cleft,  in 
the  firm  but  finely  moulded  chin  was  unfamiliar.  She 
dropped  her  eyes  and  withdrew  her  hand  from  his. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again,"  he  said. 

"You  were  the  last  person  I  expected  to  see — her'-," 
she  said,  "Aren't  you  taking  rather  desperate  chances  ?" 

"In  what  way?" 

"In  coming  back  here — where  they  will  be  watch- 
ing for  you?" 


292  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Who  ?"  he  asked,  frankly  puzzled. 

"Why,  the  officials.  If  they  catch  you,  they  will 
surely  take  you  back — to  the  penitentiary/  ■ 

"Why,  I  was  never  in  the  penitentiary!" 

"Never — never — "  Betty  gasped  and  eyed  him  with 
obvious  incredulity. 

"No;  I  thought  you  knew." 

Betty  sat  on  a  stone  and  listened  to  his  recital  of 
the  comedy  of  errors  with  a  growing  resentment  that 
blazed  into  hot  indignation  at  its  completion. 

"Why  did  you  let  me  believe  you  were  a  criminal 
and  a  fugitive?"  she  demanded,  as  she  sprang  to  her 
feet.    "It  was  unmanly!    Cruel!    Contemptible!" 

"You  are  quite  right — it  was,"  he  confessed  gravely. 
"And  still  my  offense  was  not  without  mitigating  cir- 
cumstances. No — please,  listen,  Summlns !"  he  plead- 
ed, as  she  started  toward  the  trail  leading  into  the 
forest. 

She  stopped,  turned  and  stamped  her  foot  imperi- 
ously.    "Don't  call  me  that!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon — not  only  for  that  but  for — 
everything  else.  Listen  to  me — please!  I  know  you 
will  understand — I  hope  you  will  forgive." 

"I  have  already  heard  enough — too  much." 

"But  you  have  convicted  me  without  a  hearing,  and 
that  was  the  beginning  of  our  misunderstanding.  Am 
I  not  entitled  to  it  now  in  order  that  it  may  not  con- 
tinue?" 

It  was  true — she  had.  The  innate  sense  of  justice 
that  had  questioned  the  fairness  of  her  judgment,  even 


LONG  SWEETENING  293 

in  the  face  of  convincing  evidence,  told  her  that  she 
had  been  at  fault,  and  she  did  not  attempt  to  excuse 
herself. 

"It  is  only  fair,"  she  admitted  and  resumed  her  seat. 

He  told  her,  as  fully  as  he  could,  the  motives  that 
had  prompted  him  to  leave  her  undeceived  in  the  be- 
ginning and  recalled  the  events  that  had  prevented  an 
explanation  just  at  the  moment  he  had  chosen  to  make 
it — of  the  Sheriff's  unexpected  appearance  by  the  lake ; 
of  his  declaration  then  that  he  had  not  committed  the 
robbery  and  his  promise  to  explain  the  following  day ; 
of  her  failure  to  give  him  the  opportunity  he  had! 
sought,  and  of  the  sudden  recall  to  San  Francisco  that 
had  prevented  his  return  to  the  mountains. 

"And  all  this  time  you  have  believed  me  guilty, 
though  I  had  assured  you  of  my  innocence,"  he  con- 
cluded. "But  I  could  not  possibly  think  of  resenting  it. 
I  am  too  grateful  for  the  unfaltering  trust  and  confi- 
dence you  reposed  in  me  and  unwavering  friendship 
you  have  shown  me,  even  while  believing  me  to  be  a 
fugitive,  a  criminal,  an  outcast." 

He  paused.  Before  his  steady  gaze  she  dropped  her 
eyes  to  the  fingers  nervously  intertwining  themselves 
in  her  lap.  He  stepped  to  her  side  and  bent  over  her. 

"Am  I  forgiven?"  he  asked. 

Betty  slowly  raised  her  eyes  and  found  them  caught 
by  his,  searching  her  face  with  burning  eagerness  for 
her  answer.  Her  lips  parted  in  a  half  smile,  wistful 
and  fleeting,  but,  under  the  compelling  magnetism  of 
his  eyes,  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 


294  LONG  SWEETENING 

"Tell  me!"  he  ordered. 

Without  a  word  Betty  gave  him  her  hand — a  hand 
that  was  soft,  warm  and  confiding — and  at  its  touch 
he  felt  himself  engulfed  by  a  wave  of  paralyzing  weak- 
ness. He  swayed  toward  her  and  grasped  her  hand  in 
both  of  his,  half  drowned  in  the  first  flood  of  his  emo- 
tions. A  sigh  escaped  him,  and  with  the  inrush  of  his 
suspended  breath  he  felt  himself  lifted,  buoyant,  reani- 
mated, electrified.  He  drew  her  slowly  to  her  feet  and 
toward  him,  while  her  eyes  searched  his  face  for  an 
answer  to  the  question  that  hovered  on  her  lips.  She 
threw  out  a  fending  hand,  and  while  her  eyes  held  his 
felt  the  quickened  beating  of  his  heart. 

"Tell  me — Nubbidy — "  It  was  not  a  question — it 
was  a  hesitant  plea  that  faltered  and  was  lost  in  a 
sigh. 

"What?"  She  stood  silent,  still  searching  his  face. 
"What  is  it,  Summins?,, 

"Who— are  you?" 

Carson  dropped  her  hand  as  though  he  had  been 
stung.  She  saw  his  firm  jaws  clench  and  the  frown  be- 
gin to  gather  on  his  forehead,  but  she  held  his  eyes  reso- 
lutely. From  the  moment  he  had  seen  her  face  smiling 
down  upon  him  he  had  forgotten  that  John  Arnold  or 
Wade  Carson  existed.  There  had  been  but  two  people 
in  the  world — Summins  and  Nubbidy — and  they  were 
about  to  be  driven  from  their  little  Eden. 

"Don't  you  know?"  he  asked,  knowing  that  she 
couldn't  have  given  him  her  hand  in  friendship  if  she 
had  even  suspected. 


LONG  SWEETENING  295 

"No;  tell  me." 

"I  am— Wade  Carson !" 

"Wade— Carson!" 

He  saw  the  light  die  in  her  eyes  and  the  color  fade 
from  her  cheeks ;  he  saw  the  convulsive  shudder  as  she 
shrank  from  him  with  loathing  and  horror,  and  threw 
out  a  protesting  hand. 

"Don't  touch  me!"  she  almost  screamed.  "You're 
a  worse  man  than — than  I  ever  believed  you  to  be!" 

"Summins!" 

"Don't  you  dare  call  me  that!" 

She  whirled  and  fled  up  the  trail,  stumbling,  half 
fallings  regaining  her  feet  and  with  one  backward 
glance  of  terror  stumbling  on  again — till  she  disap- 
peared in  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

John  Arnold,  bolstered  in  a  big  chair  and  wrapped 
in  a  hopelessness  that  was  almost  extinction,  sat  at  an 
open  window  of  the  resort  hotel,  his  lack-lustre  eyes 
fixed  on  the  extreme  distance,  his  confused  mind  grop- 
ing in  the  remote  past — sat  waiting  for  the  inevitable. 
He  neither  saw  Betty  emerge  from  the  nearby  forest, 
nor  heard  Mrs.  Arnold  go  to  meet  her.  In  his  lethargy 
of  despair  all  time  had  ended,  all  movement  had 
ceased — only  to  begin  again,  at  first,  with  faltering 
hesitancy,  and  then  with  quickening  certitude. 

Arnold  roused  himself  and  collected  his  faculties. 
He  had  heard  a  shout,  and  now — yes,  a  man  was  walk- 
ing toward  him,  his  feet  marking  time — one — two — 
one — two.  Vaguely  he  was  conscious  of  a  familiarity 
in  the  appearance  of  this  man,  who  was  coming  toward 
him — one — two — one — two.  Why,  of  course!  It  was 
that  doddering  old  Sheriff,  with  his  ridiculous  walk 
that  never  varied,  never  faltered,  but  carried  him 
straight  toward  him — one — two — one — The  Sheriff — 
coming — straight  to  him!  He  sprang  from  his  chair 
and  fell  crashing  to  the  floor.  He  struggled  to  his 
feet  and  fumbled  frantically  among  the  cushions  in  his 
chair,  watching  the  door  in  fascinated  terror.  It  flew 
open  and  his  wife  rushed  in.  She  screamed  and  threw 
herself  upon  him.  She  was  trying  to  take  it  from  him — 
trying  to  rob  him  of  his  only  means  of  escape!  He 
fought  desperately — as  men  fight  for  their  lives — strik- 

(296) 


LONG  SWEETENING  297 

ing,  cursing — and  yearning  for  a  single  shot  in  the  ear 
to  still  those  torturing  screams. 

He  felt  the  pistol  wrenched  from  his  hand  and  him- 
self flung  backward  into  his  chair.  He  heard  someone 
saying:  "Don't  get  excited!  Everything's  all  right!" 
and  laughed,  as  he  thought  of  a  half-nude  fat  man 
with  a  handful  of  cigarettes. 

"Please — please,  ladies!"  pleaded  the  Sheriff. 
"Everything's  all  right.  It  was  all  a  mistake.  I  wouldn't 
have  blamed  Mr.  Arnold  much  if  he  had  killed  me,"  he 
added,  as  he  slammed  the  door  in  the  intruding  faces 
of  curious  guests  and  servants. 

Quietly  but  surely  he  soothed  their  excitement,  al- 
layed their  fears  and  relieved  their  anxieties.  "I'm  not 
here  in  my  official  capacity,"  he  reassured  them,  "but 
merely  on  an  errand  of  mercy.  I  saw  the  other  day 
that  Mr.  Arnold  was  a  mighty  sick  man  and  that  you 
were  a  mighty  anxious  woman,  so  I  thought  I'd  just 
bring  out  a  little  jelly  and  chicken,  to  restore  his  ap- 
petite and  relieve  your  mind." 

They  stared  at  the  simple-minded  old  man  in  amaze- 
ment, unable  to  decide  whether  to  laugh  or  to  order 
him  from  the  room.  Without  waiting  for  an  invita- 
tion he  drew  up  a  chair,  seated  himself,  hunched  one 
shoulder  and  crossed  his  legs. 

"By  the  way,  that  fellow  Carson  was  in  town  yes- 
terday," he  observed. 

"That — beast!"   exclaimed  Betty. 

"Yeah.  He  sent  a  wire  to  the  District  Attorney  in 
San  Francisco."  Arnold  started  up,  but  his  wife  re- 


298  LONG  SWEETENING 

strained  and  soothed  him.  "Thought  you'd  like  to 
know  about  it,"  continued  the  Sheriff,  glancing  from 
one  to  another  of  them. 

"Will  that  man  stop  at  nothing?"  demanded  Betty. 

Burke  shook  his  head  hopelessly.  "Not  till  he  fin- 
ishes everything  he  ever  started,"  he  assured  her.  "He 
showed  me  the  telegram.  Let's  see — I  got  a  copy  of  it 
somewhere." 

He  dumped  the  contents  of  his  capacious  pockets  on 
his  knees,  found  his  spectacles,  polished  them  elabor- 
ately and  searched  deliberately  through  the  heap,  while 
they  watched  him  in  exasperated  anxiety. 

"Yes;  here  it  is."  He  unfolded  a  slip  of  yellow  paper 
and  read :  "Prosecution  of  John  Arnold — "  he  paused 
and  frowned  as  though  unable  to  decipher  it — "all  a 
terrible  mistake." 

With  a  sigh  that  was  almost  a  moan  Mrs.  Arnold 
clutched  at  the  back  of  her  husband's  chair,  while  he 
sat  motionless,  dazed  and  unable  to  comprehend,  for 
the  moment,  the  full  import  of  it.  Tears  unrestrained 
rolled  down  Betty's  cheeks. 

"That's  the  jelly — here's  the  chicken,"  the  Sheriff 
continued,  and  resumed  his  reading:  "Mrs.  Coleman's 
bonds  found  in  old  vault." 

"Found!"  Arnold  almost  shouted.  "How — how 
could  they  have  been  found?" 

"Well,  now,  that's  exactly  what  I  asked  Carson  my- 
self. He  just  laughed  and  said  they  had  been  put  in 
the  contingent  fund  and  overlooked." 

"I — can't  understand  it,"  said  Arnold. 


LONG  SWEETENING  299 

"Neither  do  I,"  admitted  the  Sheriff.  "Anyway,  it 
clears  you." 

"When  did  he  send  that  telegram  ?"  asked  Betty. 

"Yesterday  morning." 

"Why  didn't  he  come  to  my  father  like  a  man  and — 
and — "  she  paused  to  estimate  the  full  measure  of 
reparation  due. 

"Well,  I  guess  maybe  he  thought  he  wouldn't  be  wel- 
come here,  and  as  long  as  he  had  made  everything  all 
right,  telling  about  it  wouldn't  make  it  any  righter." 

"Made  everything  all  right!"  Betty's  eyes  blazed 
with  indignation.  "He  ruins  my  father,  heaps  humilia- 
tion upon  our  heads  and  drives  us  from  our  home, 
and  when  exposure  threatens  he  tries  to  disguise  his 
malignity  as  shear  stupidity!  I  suppose  he  asked  you 
to — express  his  regrets!" 

"No — no !"  protested  Burke,  fidgeting  under  the  un- 
expected onslaught.  "That  was  all  my  own  idea.  I 
hope  my  gossiping  hasn't  done  any  harm,"  he  pleaded. 

His  evident  discomfiture!  disarmed  Betty  at  once. 
Before  he  could  raise  a  protecting  hand  she  had  flung 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him  squarely  on 
his  whimsical  old  lips.  He  sprang  from  his  chair  and 
fled  out  the  door  and  down  the  stairs. 

"By  the  great  geeminentally  Jermiah  Jinks!"  he 
muttered,  when!  he  had  collected  sufficient  breath. 
"That's  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  run  from  man, 
woman  or  beast !  I've  a  damn  good  notion  to  go  right 
straight  back  and  ask  her  what  in  the  hifalutin'  herry- 
tickle  hell  she  meant  by  it !" 


300  LONG  SWEETENING 

John  Arnold  still  sat  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  again 
fixed  on  the  extreme  distance,  but  his  mind,  bewildered 
by  the  unexpected  turn  of  events,  groping  for  a  solu- 
tion of  the  puzzle. 

"It's  all  right  now,  John,"  murmured  Mrs.  Arnold. 
"There's  nothing  more  to  worry  about." 

"But  I  can't  understand  it,"  he  replied,  petulantly. 

"Why  Carson  found  those  missing  bonds.  It  was  all 
a  mistake."  When  she  kissed  his  forehead  a  tear  rolled 
unheeded  down  his  cheek. 

"No — it  wasn't  a  mistake,"  he  said.  "He  never  found 
those  bonds,  Elizabeth." 

"But  he  says  he  did." 

"He  is  lying — to  save  me!  Why?" 

"He  probably  feels  that  it  is  the  only  reparation  he 
can  make  after  ruining  you,"  she  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection. 

"No,  Elizabeth;  he  didn't  do  that.  The  foundation 
I  laid  was  never  sound,  and  the  fire  left  only  a  ram- 
shackle ruin  that  collapsed  before  the  first  breeze.  I 
can  see  all  that — now.  But  why  has  he  saved  me — at 
his  own  expense — when  he  had  me  at  his  mercy  ?  And 
after  all  I  did  to  him — when  he  was — only  a  child !" 

"Then  we  should  be  very  grateful." 

"Grateful!  Please  leave  me — for  a  time."  A  great 
sob  shook  his  heavy  frame.  "I  am — overwhelmed !" 

Mrs.  Arnold  found  Betty  on  her  bed  in  a  darkened 
room,  suffering  from  one  of  her  rare  but  obstinate 
headaches. 

"No,  mother — really — there's  nothing  you  can  do 


LONG  SWEETENING  301 

for  me,"  she  insisted.  "It  will  wear  itself  off  with  a 
little  rest  and  quiet.  Go  back  to  father." 

"He  doesn't  want  me,  either,"  complained  Mrs.  Ar- 
nold. "He  was  just  telling  me  about  Mr.  Carson." 

"Oh,  mother !  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything — even 
think  of  that — "  she  searched  for  a  suitable  epithet — 
"that — Carson !"  she  ended  lamely. 

"Don't  be  so  bitter,  Betty.  Your  father  tells  me  we 
should  be  very  grateful  for  what  Mr.  Carson  has  done." 

"Mother!"  Betty  bobbed  up  in  her  bed  like  an  elec- 
trified puppet.  "What  did  he  say?" 

"Why — I  don't  understand  it  all — but  your  father 
is — is  quite  overcome  by  his  generosity." 

"Generosity!  In  dropping  a  malicious  and  unwar- 
ranted prosecution  after  he  had  ruined  us  financially?" 
Betty  fell  back  on  her  pillow. 

"But  your  father  says  his  failure  was  inevitable. 
Carson  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — it  was  the  fire." 

Mrs.  Arnold  left  Betty,  already  surfeited,  more 
food  for  thought.  That  the  bank  had  been  wrecked  and 
her  father's  fortune  swept  away ;  that  Carson,  inspired 
by  hatred  and  a  desire  for  revenge,  had  been  instru- 
mental in  precipitating  the  calamity;  that  he  had  been 
behind  an  impending  prosecution  of  her  father  for 
at  least  a  technical  violation  of  law;  that  her  father, 
in  despondency  and  desperation,  had  attempted  suicide  ; 
and  that  Carson,  for  some  unknown  reason,  had  re- 
lented, was  all  perfectly  clear.  That  her  father  had 
committed  any  crime,  she  could  not  believe;  that  he 
had  been  in  imminent  peril,  she  could  not  doubt;  and 


3o2  LONG  SWEETENING 

that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  circumstances  cunning- 
ly contrived  by  Carson  was  highly  probable.  But  her 
father's  gratitude  was  beyond  her  comprehension,  un- 
less he  measured  it  by  the  depth  of  the  despair  from 
which  Carson's  indulgence  had  raised  him. 

But  why  had  Carson,  nursing  resentment  for  years, 
suddenly  relented — at  the  very  moment  when  his  ven- 
geance would  be  complete  ?  Had  he  in  some  way  over- 
reached himself,  or  had  pity  finally  touched  his  con- 
science? Or  had  it  been  prompted  by  the  gratitude  he 
had  expressed  to  her  that  day?  As  she  recalled  the 
incidents  of  the  morning — her  father's  deadly  enemy 
holding  her  hand  and  looking  into  her  eyes — she  flush- 
ed with  humiliation  and  anger,  and  flung  the  recollec- 
tion from  her. 

But  she  must  know  the  truth  of  it  all.  She  could 
never  rest  until  she  did.  It  was  hopeless  to  expect  any- 
thing from  her  mother,  she  could  not  ask  her  father, 
and  she  would  not  believe  Carson,  even  if  she  could 
bring  herself  to  question  him.  But  her  father's  attorney 
must  know.  She  would  return  to  San  Francisco  at 
once  and  demand  the  truth  from  him. 

She  sprang  from  her  bed,  hastily  removed  the  traces 
of  tears,  then  hurried  to  the  hotel  office  to  ascertain 
the  quickest  means  of  reaching  the  railroad,  and  al- 
most collided  with  Sheriff  Burke,  just  departing. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Miss  Arnold,"  he  said,  manoeuvr- 
ing to  get  beyond  the  reach  of  her  arms.  "Hope  you're 
feeling  better." 

"Are  you  going  into  town?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 


LONG  SWEETENING  303 

"Yes'm." 

"May  I  ride  in  with  you?  I  want  to  return  to  San 
Francisco  at  once." 

"Well— now,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  hesitated.  "I'm  per- 
fectly willing,  you  understand — glad  to  give  anybody 
a  lift  any  time — but  that  little  mule  of  mine  might  ob- 
ject.   He's  never  packed  double." 

"Oh!  I  thought  you  had  a  machine." 

"No — no ;  I  still  stick  to  the  old  hay-burner.  But  the 
regular  stage  leaves  in  time  to  connect  with  the  early 
morning  train." 

It  was  morning  in  the  mountains.  High  in  the  bright 
blue  ether  a  pair  of  eagles  balanced,  plunged  and  dip- 
ped their  pinions  in  the  flashing  sunlight.  Far  beneath 
them  the  higher  peaks  glowed  under  the  golden  flood 
that  slowly  wound  its  way  to  the  lower  levels,  like 
streams  of  molten  lava.  At  its  approach  the  purple  shad- 
ows retreated  into  the  depths  of  the  great  forest,  leav- 
ing the  hilltops  rosily  opalescent,  the  meadows  violet- 
hued  and  the  streams  mere  threads  of  flashing  silver. 
And  there  all  was  bustle  and  activity — the  dawn  of  a 
new  day,  in  which  the  alarms  and  perils  of  yesterday 
were  forgotten.  Grouse  were  drumming  in  the  pines 
and  quail,  callingKn  the  lower  meadows,  were  answered 
from  the  higher  glades.  Squirrels  were  chattering  in 
the  laurels,  and  a  pair  of  redwing  blackbirds  were  flut- 
tering in  shallow  water  at  the  edge  of  the  lake.  A 
dainty  wren,  taking  her  morning  shower  under  the 
spray  of  a  cascade,  paused  to  cock  a  wondering  eye  at 


304  LONG  SWEETENING 

the  man  who,  in  this  little  paradise  filled  with  the  joy 
of  life,  had  buried  himself  in  brooding. 

Wade  Carson  could  not  have  told  whether  he,  with 
the  rest  of  the  world,  was  waking  to  a  new  and  beau- 
tiful day,  or  whether  he  still  lay  in  the  grip  of  a  hor- 
rible nightmare ;  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead,  and  his 
tortured  soul  already  plunged  in  the  depths  of  darkest 
hell.  Nor  did  he  care.  For  an  instant  he  had  lived,  and 
the  next  instant  he  had  died.  All  had  been  chaos,  all 
would  soon  be  oblivion.  For  that,  and  only  that,  he 
waited,  not  knowing  he  was  waiting. 

A  pebble  rolled  down  from  the  hillside  and  past  his 
feet;  a  crested  jay  shrieked  a  shrill  warning  from  the 
maple  above  his  head ;  a  squirrel,  that  had  been  sitting 
beside  him  watching  him  expectantly,  scampered  up  a 
tree  and  added  its  petulant  bark  to  the  cries  of  the  jay 
— all  unheeded.  Dimly  he  was  consqious  of  a  touch  on 
his  shoulder,  and  faintly  he  heard  someone  call  his 
name.  It  might  have  been  the  call  to  judgment  for  all 
he  knew  or  cared. 

"Mr.  Carson !" 

Slowly  he  turned  his  face  and  raised  his  eyes — and 
saw  beside  him  a  dim  vision  of  Betty  Arnold,  the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  loved,  the  only  woman  he  had  ever 
known,  and  as  he  stared  in  stupid  fascination  he  saw  it 
shrink,  recede  and  then  approach  again.  Once  more 
he  felt  the  touch  upon  his  shoulder,  and  slowly,  doubt- 
fully, raised  his  hand  until  his  groping  fingers  tremu- 
lously touched  hers. 

"Mr.  Carson!  I  came  back — " 


LONG  SWEETENING  305 

It  was  no  illusion  or  hallucination.  It  was  Summins 
— returned  to  him.  He  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  stood 
staring  at  her,  while  he  tried  to  collect  his  bewildered 
faculties.  Yes,  it  was  she — not  the  scornful  Betty  Ar- 
nold who  had  left  him  a  moment,  or  an  eternity,  be- 
fore, nor  the  wistful  and  confiding  Summins  he  had 
known  somewhere  in  a  previous  incarnation,  but  a 
new  Summins,  with  all  the  gentle  tenderness  of  a  mini- 
stering angel  and  all  the  radiant  beauty  of  virginal 
womanhood. 

"I  have  come  back — to  ask  your  forgiveness,"  she 
said,  "for  doubting — even  a  moment — your  humanity." 

Carson  stood  transfixed,  his  dark  eyes  clinging  to 
her,  straining  desperately  to  hold  her  against  the  mo- 
ment when  she  would  recede  into  the  darkness  from 
which  she  had  emerged. 

"I  didn't  know  what  you  had  suffered — through  my 
father — or  what  you  had  done — for  him.  I  believed  it 
was  you  who  had  driven  him  to  destruction — when  it 
was  you  who  had  saved  him  from  it." 

Carson  was  conscious  of  her  voice,  murmuring,  mu- 
sical and  infinitely  soothing,  and  waited  breathlessly 
for  the  moment  when  it  would  die  away  somewhere  in 
the  distance,  leaving  not  the  faintest  echo. 

"But  for  Daddy  Burke  I  might  never  have  known — 
all.     Won't  you — forgive  me?" 

It  was  little  more  than  a  fluttering  sigh.  He  threw 
out  a  hand  to  catch  her — hold  her — for  another  in- 
stant.   A  mighty  sob  shook  his  whole  frame. 

"Don't  leave  me,  Summins!" 


3o6  LONG  SWEETENING 

It  was  a  cry  wrenched  from  the  depths  of  a  soul 
steeped  in  the  bitterness  of  despair.  He  drew  her  to 
him  and  wrapped  his  arms  around  her. 

"Don't  leave  me!" 

He  felt  her  unresisting  form  pressed  against  him,  her 
heart  beating  on  his  own;  he  felt  her  arms  steal  about 
his  neck  and  a  tendril  of  golden  hair  brush  his  cheek ; 
he  saw  her  limpid  eyes,  brimming  with  tears,  looking 
deep  into  his  own.  Then,  with  all  the  pent-up  passion 
of  a  loveless  life,  he  drank  from  the  lips  that  met  his 
own  the  nectar  of  their  youth  and  beauty,  ineffably 
sweet  and  soul-satisfying. 

THE  END. 


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